A/N: Getting back into the saddle. So sorry that I took so long, but vacation and writing turned out to be totally incompatible, I*m afraid. But now I'm back, and I'm writing again. Not quite sure that this chapter is up to my usual standards yet, but I don't want to keep you waiting any longer.

Tell me what you think!

And on with the ride...

Edit: guest. He doesn't. Mistake on my part. I've updated it. Thanks for the notice, and thanks to Judybear for corrections again

Chapter 49: The ripples that will make the wave

"How soon is soon?"
"Longer than little while, faster than later."

The reaction, Enjolras realized in an almost absent-minded thought, was diverse to say the least.

But perhaps, he should have expected nothing else.

At a first glance, Éponine's proposal was as outrageous as it was bold, and it was beyond the scope of anything that Enjolras was willing to even consider, and it was only a word given – and not easily retrieved – that had forced him to even listen to her proposal to the end.

And yet, there was one thing that Eponine had acutely realized and that was not easily dismissed by way of the absolute knowledge: Joining the lesser of two evils for the vanquishing of the larger one was a valid course of action after all. They were running out of a number of things that they were in dire need of – refuge, safety, and maybe even courage to a certain extent.

So – while the solution was unacceptable, the problem was real and had to be dealt with.

This was as good a time to discuss it as any, and fairness dictated that he bring Éponine's proposal in front of his friends at least.

"That's not so stupid." Bahorel, unsurprisingly, had been the first to react, and his response had not been adverse at all. He had been prowling around the table that they had crowded around, too restless for repose or stillness. "I think the criminals we can handle. It's the safe haven we need."

Élodie looked up from the needlework she had in her lap for a moment - all three girls did sewing work from home and had already started their day's chores not to fall behind too much on their duties – and frowned. But she did not say anything, and Enjolras did not wait for him to reconsider.

"It is not a question of ability, but of morality", he answered bluntly. "Nothing is to be gained from polluting the cause with villainy."

"Nothing is to be gained from dying, as you well know"; Bahorel gave back drily, sending a quick gaze back to Enjolras, who only barely managed to avoid a flinch. The horrific moment when the light had faded out of Grantaire's eyes was still all too present. And it hurt. More, probably, than it should.

The silence lingered for a moment, so that Enjolras could hear fragments of the whispered side conversation that Gavroche was having with the gamin. Only snippets reached his ears, but they were clearly discussing details of what Eponine had had in mind. People, places, dangers. Quite obviously, the boy had a notion of what his sister was talking about, but their quick chatter in the incomprehensible dialect of the streets was too difficult to follow with a tired mind like this. But they did seem to have gone to the level of details already.

As if he had not rejected the proposal the way he had.

"The point is, you need a shelter, don't you?" asked Adelaide and only briefly glanced up from her work, but her gaze, directed at Enjolras, was almost ironic, a sardonic notion playing around her lips.

"Undisputedly", Enjolras answered, almost reluctantly.

"So, let's count down the alternatives", Adelaide recommended with a shrug and went back to her needlework as if the conversation was only of passing interest to her. There was something in her dismissive manner that Enjolras found distinctively grating, but before he could comment, Courfeyrac intercepted.

"She's right", he nodded, throwing only a fleeting glance to the Creole that spoke of a certain unease, but Adelaide ignored him completely. For a brief moment, a shadow crossed over Courfeyrac's handsome features, but he caught himself quickly and continued, voice and manner smooth. "So. What have we got?"

"The dwellings of another group?"

Kataczina had taken her seat by the oven bench, next to the open door into Louise's room, where Feuilly was still abed. Listening, no doubt. Enjolras was aware of the young fanmaker's resilience, but his lady had been adamant in him staying abed at least. She joined the discussion in a pensieve, almost careful manner, as she always did when she raised her voice amongst the friends of her beloved.

Among the mistresses of his friends, she was certainly by far the most bearable creature. She had a mind at least, and sense to speak or stay silent, whatever the situation called for. A rare gift in a woman.

She was quite the opposite of Eponine, he noted, bright where the gamine was dark, clean, noble, well-groomed. And yet, her eyes were just as clever.

"No use", Bahorel intercepted, almost rudely. "They'll just do the same thing over and over again. What's to stop them if we are at Richfeu's? Or at the Joliet?"

"Well, we are warned", Courfeyrac noted. "Granted, none of us thought they would really go this far at this point in time, but now we know that they will there could be precautions. That sort of thing requires preparation."

"Perhaps the next time it's not a machine infernale", Bahorel snorted in disgust. "How about poisoning our wine, for example? Or a fire in the entrance? The Joliet is just a wooden shack, when it comes down to this. Summer is at our doorstep, it would burn like cinder. There's hundreds of ways a devious mind could think of if they want to kill us. But go ahead. Let's just walk into the next trap like cattle to the slaughterhouse."

Again, Élodie flashed him a gaze, silent and worried. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she didn't. Only the lines around her mouth spoke of strain and displeasure. It did not suit her well. She had a sunny face.

"What about sentries?" Kataczyna entered again the discussion that Enjolras was currently content to watch. He had sought his friends' advice, and it seemed as if he would be getting it.

Even though the presence of Louise, Elodie, Adelaide and Kataczyna made this assembly quite different from their usual discourses.

And Éponine of course. Her probably most of them all.

"Most of these things – all of those that you noted at least – require some sort of preparation. Actually, quite a lot of it. Which would require undisturbed access of the premises, more or less. Sentries might help. A watch."

"That's a possibility", Enjolras said, feeling slightly relieved at a plan forming.

"Binds resources, though." This time, Adelaide did not even look up. "And lets them know where exactly to find a few of you on their own at any given time. How many are they, by the way?"

Enjolras considered this for a moment.

"We're not quite sure. There is the one who attacked us in the beginning, the one from Saint Antoine, from the Barriere, Issy and the de Cambouts, which makes five at the very least. All of them have been seen and seem to be very different in physique."

"Unless they're good at disguising."

Éponine and Gavroche had interrupted their discussion, and the gamine joined their talk with a slightly ironic comment. "Some are. But having seen two of them – you'd need magic to make one guy look like both of them, so they are probably five at least."

Enjolras nodded.

"There is someone about in Picpus, which may or may not be one of the five – and then there is of course yesterday's…", for a moment, words failed him until he finally settled for, "incident."

"And the man that spied on Jeanne and his friends."

This brought Courfeyrac in the focus of everyone's attention. Enjolras frowned.

"Beg your pardon?"

Adelaide sighed and her stitches became more aggressive, quite as if she were attacking the cloth rather than simply sewing.

"As I told your talkative friend already yesterday: There was apparently someone spying on Charles' friends. From what I know Charles sent him walking, but if you want to know more you should talk to him directly."

There was little that Enjolras was less inclined to do. But as things were, pleasant occupations were rather in short supply, and he had to content himself with what was there.

"I see", he said, managing to keep most of what he thought out of his voice. "Interesting."

First the man who had been questioning little Sylvain about Gavroche's friends, and now this. But he supposed it was to be expected. The assassins were much too well informed. There was little to explain this but espionage.

A gruesome thought.

"So in summary", Courfeyrac concluded, "another groups' dwelling is an option but not a good one."

"You'd also need to convince one of them – and the tavern keeper – to take the risk", Éponine remarked, and the sting of her words, for a moment, was bitter. Yet, she was right.

"Yes. There's that", Courfeyrac nodded unhappily. "So what else then?"

"One of our private dwellings?" Enjolras proposed, but again, Bahorel was very vocal in his displeasure.

"Too small. Much too small. Even the palace that Jehan lives in. We'll never get even half of the people in there."

Surprisingly, Éponine laughed.

"You have no idea how many people one can fit in a room if it's really necessary."

Bahorel whirled around to her, eyes blazing.

"What are you trying to say?" he snapped, his fingers clenching to fists.

Elodie placed aside her needlework in a surprisingly casual gesture and got up, the epitome of lightheartedness, but she had sensed Courfeyrac's mood immediately. She even managed a smile, and when she smiled, she was charming, all freckles and blazing eyes and a contagious mirth that seemed youthful and mischievous at the same time.

"Oh come on, don't be", she said in an almost scolding manner. "She's right and you should be glad for it, and by the way, while the image of all of you crammed together is somewhat hilarious, it's probably not really helping for a discussion." She placed a hand on his arm, and he scowled at her, but at least he did not lash out at Eponine once more. Abruptly, he turned around and retook to pacing, leaving her looking stricken for just a moment.

Then, she smiled again.

"A park?" she proposed with levity.

"Great until the next thunderstorm", Courfeyrac commented. "Plus, this is the easiest place to overhear."

"Not to mention the fact that regular gatherings of more than ten are strictly prohibited as yesterday's inspector was so good to remind me", Enjolras returned with bite. He felt trapped at the lack of opportunities before his eyes and could almost understand Bahorel's frustration and behaviour. He felt very much like pacing himself.

"You don't have much of a choice."

The voice was new in their round and all of them turned to see Feuilly, pale, but upright, standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras, I know you hate it. We all do, and I'm certain even Mademoiselle does." A quick glance to Eponine found her indeed nodding. "But we are running out of options. We are and chased and need a stronghold of sorts. You need it. Confidence is dwindling. When people are scared and subdued they're turning from men to animals. It's started already." He gave a quick glance towards Bahorel. "Believe me. I know. It's a dangerous thing, not having a haven. We need a place where we do not constantly look behind our backs, we need a refuge."

"I strongly doubt that we would feel… safe… among these criminals."

"They're not murderers and cutthroats… at least not until threatened", Gavroche intercepted. "They're smugglers if you need to know." He grinned broadly. "Stealing from the crown. Shouldn't this be right up your alley?"

"I would do the looking over my shoulder for you", Eponine continued. "I'm used to it."

"And here we have the real question."

Feuilly ignored Katya's scolding looks as he heavily leaned against the doorframe, his skin turning paler by the minute. He fell silent after this, but Enjolras understood none the less what he was trying to say. There was no need to voice it.

It came down to a single, and very simple question.

Did he trust Éponine?

Enjolras ran his hands over his face and tried to banish bitter images of the last days in favor of the ability to think clearly. But the whirlwind of events was resilient and always, always found its way to the bitter conclusion.

The horrific moment when the light had faded out of the eyes of the man he had not been able to trust, right after he had saved his life.

He would have never believed Grantaire to be capable of such a deed. Of such… selflessness in the drunkard who seemed to care about nothing in life.

Looks could be deceiving.

It all comes down to what you really are.

The wisdom of a street girl, but so acute and true that he had not been able to fully banish it from his mind.

Yes, Éponine was at the heart of these considerations, she was the center and the core. She had made the proposal, and it was her in whose hands he would be laying his life.

But there was more to this.

She had been down trod. She had stolen. She had been a criminal. And yet he could not forget how her words had lifted a shadow in the night, with a wisdom that had taken him utterly by surprise. Could not forget how she had helped drag him out of the ruin that was the Corinthe. Could not forget, how easily and well she had found her way into their midst.

In the end, one needed to distinguish between what one was and what one was made to be.

For him. For her. For all of them.

With surprise he realized that the answer to Feuilly's question was "yes".

He did trust her, and he could not even explain why.

Maybe it was the heat of battle and the hectic of the passing days. And yet, in times of war risks had to be taken, and apart from logic, also intuition had led him as far as it had.

He had no idea how long he had been standing there, frowning, looking from Feuilly to Eponine and back while all eyes were on him, waiting for him to answer.

"I promise nothing." The words were heavy with lead and meaning, and he saw Éponine's eyes widening slightly. "But I agree to negotiate."

She did not smile but he was not surprised. There was not even satisfaction in her eyes. Just a deep seriousness, like the last breath a warrior took before the start of a battle.

"All right then", she said. "Let's go."

In some ways, the situation was akin to an accident. Or a monstrosity in a circus.

Horrific to watch in its own way, but so very, very captivating that it was impossible to turn the eyes from the spectacle at hand.

Pierre Berat somewhat deeply regretted having missed his cue to leave, which found him now an unwilling witness of the scene that unfolded in front of him.

Of course he could still depart. However, he was not certain that he wanted to attract the attention that was linked to such an activity, and therefore he remained still and silent instead, a silent observer of the scenery.

The discussion was heated. And it had made strange bedfellows indeed.

It did not help that all of them were tired – the late hours of the morning usually saw the whole editor's team of le Globe at home and abed – work often ranged deep into the night and therefore mornings were never early. Pierre Berat himself longed for the warm, somber coziness that was his room, which he shared with Lisette, his wife of the last ten fifteen years.

She would wonder where he was.

But instead of going home, he stood there watching how Messieurs Combeferre and Enfantin joined forces to convince Messieurs Chevalier and Rodrigues to take action.

It was a rare occasion in itself to see Enfantin and Combeferre argue together. Usually, these two men were the two sides of a coin, sense and exuberance, science and belief, reformation and revolution. But today, they seemed in total agreement.

And it was Chevalier and Rodrigues, who found themselves on the receiving end of their fervor.

Pierre himself was not quite sure where he stood himself in this discussion. He was no fool and certain that through Combeferre, Madame herself was arguing as well. Even though Hélène de Cambout had not exactly shown the best of judgements during these last days, the arguments Combeferre gave seemed to be relatively sound.

Hélène had forced le Globe out of cover already with her bold article two days ago, and all that Combeferre now requested was to take a final step and openly declare allegiances. A dangerous thought, and yet Pierre tended to agree with him that the point of no return had been passed on all sides by now.

The attack that had torn apart the group of Combeferre and his friends was as good a declaration of war as they would probably get, and hence, time for caution seemed indeed past.

Even though especially Rodrigues still tried to deny it.

Enfantin unleashed his fury. He could be magnificent and dangerous when angered, a force to be reckoned with, even though he tended to overstretch the boundaries of society, discussion and sense at some times a bit too far for Berat's taste. But he was difficult to withstand when he was like this – all anger, and conviction, charm and fire. A bit akin to Enjolras, Pierre thought, but again, the other side of the coin, for the student's fire burned under a layer of ice, while Enfantin's ice was hidden deep under his burning passion.

Pierre was not quite sure which of both was more frightening.

Chevalier and Rodrigues were fighting a losing battle. It was only a matter of time.

Barely suppressing a sigh, Pierre closed his eyes. He longed for an opportunity to go home.

It was time to talk to Lisette. With all that was going on, it was high time to send her and the children to the country. Where they would be safe.

Because it would be only a matter of days, until this city would go up in flames.

Midday was upon the city, when Gavroche finally reached the Quais where he found his little friends, throwing stones at a lone tree that stubbornly clung to life on the banks of the Seine. Another night, where he had left them completely on their own, and he did feel something akin to remorse for this, although he had to admit that they were fending for themselves nicely.

All the better, he thought. He loved them dearly, as he would have loved brothers, but his life was a free one and he wanted the same for them.

To depend on someone was always a dangerous thing; apart from the fact that it took away the possibility to come, go and do as one pleased, it was also a very uncertain way of living. Whoever one depended upon, that person could vanish, die or simply lose interest.

One did not grow up a Thénardier child without learning this.

No, if a dependency must be, it was better to be the one that people depended upon, master of one's own destiny and that of others. To be a king of the streets and rule a province. But best, and in this Gavroche fully concurred with his student friends, best was equality, and so Gavroche was glad to see that his friends were coming into their own.

It was Pucet who first saw him, and he squeaked in that boyish, babyish voice of his and ran towards Gavroche on his short legs, eyes lighting and a big grin plastered on his face.

"You're good!" he shouted with delight, "Sylvain, Jean, look, he's good!"

The greeting he received told him that they knew of the Corinthe, but that they also knew that he had at least made it out alive. As it turned out, Sylvain had talked to a washing woman who lived in the Rue de Chanvrerie and had witnessed the night's events. Still, the relief was palpable.

"What've you been up to?" Gavroche asked as they were sitting together on the banks of the river, watching the murky waters slide by slowly. "Anything new and interesting?"

"Lots and lots and lots", Jean gave back cocksure. "You missed quite a lot."

"Tell me then", he demanded. "How's Paris?"

"Plague's getting worse", Jean began. "There've been many more dead than the days before. Doctors say the heat and the summer make people weak."

"Hm", Gavroche said. "So does winter. Doesn't seem logical that they kill both, don't you think?"

"Folks are getting more and more angry", Sylvain supplied. "Word is that it's the government that's been giving poisoned food to the poorer departments, which then spreads the disease even more. There's been a mob that chased out a few doctors from Saint Germain yesterday and seems one of them got really hurt."

"Don't know." Gavroche made a face. "I think if it were doctors who are spreading it, Joly and Combeferre would know. They're doctors."

"And they don't know?" Jean asked and got himself a slap for his trouble.

"Of course not, silly"; Gavroche scolded. "They want to help people, not kill them, stupid. What else?"

"Gypsies are leaving town." That was Pucet, very obviously proud that he had a contribution to their discussion. Gavroche frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"You know that family in Saint Germain?"

"Of course I do." In the early days, when Pucet had just joined them, they had thought that the boy must have gypsy origin, for his tanned skin and dark curls. He did not remember his family, but in an attempt to find his parents, Gavroche, Jean and Sylvain had talked to gypsies both permanently and temporarily residing in the city to find out if someone knew the lad.

They had not been successful – although one of the younger men said that the boy did have some familiar looks about him, but nothing had come of it.

The hovel in Saint Germain had been one where they had been relatively well received. Most gypsies were notoriously wary of outsiders, and that extended even to street children such as them, but in this particular case they had been invited for a weak tea and some stale cookies, while they talked.

Gavroche had liked them and sometimes met with the boys of the family for an exchange of information. Navet was closer to them than he was; but they were certainly more of allies than of strangers.

"They're leaving town?" he asked therefore, and Pucet nodded again. "Said they'll return, but we've heard that before."

"We have indeed", Gavroche confirmed and frowned. That family had lived there for years and years. It was not very much like them to leave their place. "All of them?"

Pucet shook his head.

"Nah", he said. "Not all of them. Some are staying, but it was a big pack none the less, women and children and some boys as well."

"Took off into different directions, as word has it", Jean added. "Of course no one really notices them coming or going, but they didn't go all together."

"Any idea why?"

"One of them said they had a visit by a strange man yesterday", Jean explained. "Don't know who that was. No one of the quarter, that's for sure. Had them pretty frightened."

"Is the old lady gone?"

Jean shook his head, and Gavroche nodded silently. The old lady was as much of a leader as this gypsy family had. As long as she stayed, they might indeed intend to return.

"Maybe we should talk to her and ask what's up. You never know. She might tell us."

"She might give us cookies", Pucet supplied hopefully and Jean laughed and ruffled the younger boy's hair. "She might. Lets try it some time, shall we?"

"That'd be good", Gavroche nodded. "I'm curious."

This was not the last of news, of course. The world of the boys of the street was an exciting and ever shifting one, where dominions wavered and lucks turned quickly. One had to know one's way around, but this was not enough. One also had to know the way of the ways.

Jean and Sylvain had gotten into a quarrel with another group of street kids trying to sneak into the territory, when word had briefly gone round that Gavroche was dead, but they had learned their lesson quickly enough.

Half the national guard had been on their feet yesterday due to the Corinthe incident, and when the fires had finally gone out they had put their time to good use to round up some unfortunate dwellers of the city and send them to prison on the assumption that whoever lived in the streets must also be guilty of some sort of crime. This happened often enough, although this night might have been excessive. Jean, Sylvain and Pucet had stayed out of their way, but others had been less fortunate, and the cells of la Force would be well filled today, he feared.

All in all, Gavroche could not help the impression that the city was under the heat of summer as early as the first of June. That strange time of year which made people angry and strong and prone to quarrel and idiotic ideas. Something was brewing. He could feel it.

And then he remembered.

"Any news of Lamarque?"

"Ah yes." Jean slapped himself against his forehead in a mock punishment. "There's news indeed, but it's not good."

Gavroche made a face. He knew himself very little of the man – except that he was good, of course – but his friends cherished him, half of the city cherished him and his name was wandering through the alleys of the city like a good-luck charm.

Not so much luck left for himself, as it would seem.

"Navet saw a priest going in this morning and never coming out again", Jean reported. "And there's a lot of hustle in front of the house. People gathering, waiting for news, screaming, wailing, protesting, all of it. I think I saw some of the friends of your friends there. Some marbleworker from the Barriere was giving speeches, and the police had to shove them apart. There was a bit of a riot, and people were angry."

"So he is going to die?"

Jean shrugged.

"Well, no one knows, of course. But people who go in are really somber, Navet says. Lots of carriages and stuff. He said that he heard a whisper that one of the visitors was Félix Berthe."

"The minister of justice?" Gavroche wondered. "Blimey."

"Yeah", Jean answered. "So don't know if he's dying for real, but something's going on in there. I'd wager my teeth on that."

"Don't do that", Gavroche commented absentmindedly. "You might still need them."

But his heart was not in the banter. If Lamarque was indeed losing his battle against cholera, this was big and important news indeed. His friends would want to know. And if he died, there was no telling what would happen.

"We should continue to watch his house", he said. "To see if anything more happens."

Jean shrugged.

"Fine with me."

Gavroche nodded and tossed a pebble into the stone. It seemed, as if the brilliant sun in the sky had just turned somewhat more somber.

The city under the heat; indeed.