A/N: Somewhat of a filler chapter, I am afraid, but some things need to be taken care of before I can continue for the next steps...

Thanks for all your lovely reviews, to know that you are out there made me continue although this chapter was very hard to write.

I guess the next ones will be easier, things picking up and all...

Comments make my day

Love, Spirit

Chapter 59: No sleep for the righteous

„You got a plan?" - "Let's try not to get killed." – "Brilliant."

„I really don't mind having Louise share the room with me tonight", Élodie said, shaking out her reddish curls as Adelaide heard the steps on the staircase that could only originate from their third, blond flatmate who had gone out to a brief meeting with the man she had been seeing for the last few months. "I mean, it probably will not be very spacious, but we sleep in twos all the time in that bed when Bahorel is here, so I am really used to it."

While my bed has been a fairly solitary place recently, Adelaide thought wryly, and apparently Élodie thought along the same lines, because her expression went from a friendly, accommodating smile to something somewhat stricken.

"I'm sorry, Adelaide", she said. "That was very insensitive of me."

Adelaide, although slightly wounded, shook her head and made a dismissive gesture. It was not worth the effort. Élodie was a splendid comrade, light-hearted, bright, always ready to see the good side of a story, but when it came to men, there was no place on this earth where Adelaide and Élodie could be of the same opinion once. They had gone down the road of that quarrel many times before, the paths were trodden and it was not worth the effort.

"Don't worry", she said therefore. "It's true, after all."

And probably better this way. It had been one of the earliest lessons that life had imprinted upon her – when push came to shove, one had no one to turn to but one self. This had been her credo ever since, and no one, not the friends she shared the apartment with, not a too-goodlooking student with mussed curls, not a former solder quickly becoming some sort of father figure, would be able to change this prerogative.

Not wanting to dwell on the thought any longer that turned depressing of one turned it over one time too many, Adelaide got up to open the door to Louise, who, true to form, greeted her flatmate with her usual exuberance.

She had met the two others by coincidence two years ago, when they were all three already working as freelancers for the same tailorer, taking home the simpler work – mendings, underclothes, changes – and it had been evident very quickly that they got on well together. Only a few months later, when Louise lost her apartment due to her refusal to oblige her patron in a way she was not prepared to, the three had decided to team up, share apartment, work and pay between them, and thus it had been ever since.

It worked surprisingly well, and since early childhood, this was the first time that Adelaide did have a sort of family. Although often accused of somber brooding by her more lively friends, she enjoyed it well enough and would not have wanted it otherwise.

Louise was not adverse to sharing a room with Élodie – even made a quip on better not telling this to Bahorel, so that he would not regret not having been here to see this – and did not seem to mind that Courfeyrac's friend was still occupying her own room.

That was a good thing about Louise. Secretly, Adelaide did think her somewhat flippant sometimes, but she had a good heart and was practical, obliging and easy-going. Things never seemed difficult or complicated, when it came to Louise.

That was something to be appreciated in a complex world.

As if to confirm Adelaide's assessment of her character, after placing her shawl on the cupboard – where they had no business being, as the girl should know well – she launched into a detailed account on the evening with her current beau; a foreman from one of the local manufactures, and, if her accounts could be believed, a very virile man.

Adelaide did not particularly care for these talks, but Élodie participated actively, sharing laughs and questions, and so she could without bad conscience keep out of the conversation and finish the dress she had been mending.

The clock from Saint Michel rang the eleventh hour and Adelaide was finally prepared to put her needlework aside, when steps on the staircase, followed by a knocking on their door, heralded the arrival of another visitor.

Exchanging gazes, the girls ensured that none of them was expecting this visit, and then it fell to Adelaide to get up and open the door.

They had found out that her dark skin did put some people off who were caught unawares at the sight of a creole, and whatever little advantage it was, they were willing to use it.

A single glance however showed her that there was no need for this today.

In front of the door stood a gamin, probably ten years old, his dirty hair hidden by a cap, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal skinny arms.

Adelaide gave him a small smile.

"Good evening, Navet", she greeted.

"Oi Adelaide. Got a message for you from the captain."

Adelaide knew that Charles Jeanne detested this address by the gamin, but Navet had never been impressed by this before and this was very unlikely to change. Not wanting to fight a losing battle, she stepped back into the room and invited the boy in.

Navet complied and pushed his cap towards his neck, more strands falling into his eyes in the process.

"Oi Elodie", he greeted with a very easy wave of his hand, and then, with a broader grin, "hey, Louise."

Louise was a favourite of his. Reminding her of her little brother, he was sure to get something from her almost every time he saw her – a coin, some food, or at least an affectionate gesture.

Adelaide and Elodie teased Louise with it, but gently. She missed her family enough as it were.

"So, Navet", Elodie said, taking an apple from the shelf and placing it into the gamin's hand. "What did Jeanne say?"

"He gave me a sou to tell you that there's a meeting at the Dufranc factory. Foreman said he'd turn a blind eye, and Jeanne said one of you should come."

Adelaide frowned.

"Now?" she asked. "It is past eleven."

Navet shrugged nonchalantly.

"Best time for a meeting under the veil of darkness if you ask me. High time in the streets of Paris, not like the working folk, that's true. Anyhow, I didn't really question him. Gave me a sou. It's up to you if you show up or no."

Adelaide let a weary hand pass over her face. Sleep had been in short supply last night already – with Courfeyrac in the apartment, sleep was a faraway prospect indeed – and she had been counting on catching up tonight. But Charles Jeanne being who he was – a revolutionary, yes, but still a very diligent and organized man – an impromptu meeting late at night did not sound very much like him.

Unless, of course, something had happened.

Sighing internally, Adelaide gave up on the hope of sleep.

"I'll go", she said, turning towards Louise and Élodie. The latter frowned.

"Are you sure? You had pretty little sleep last night."

Adelaide smiled in response.

"So had you, from what I could hear." She had the decency to color at that, red spots appearing on her pale, freckled cheeks as she grinned and shrugged. "I don't mind, really. I am not tired anyhow."

Her friend gave her a doubtful frown, but Adelaide did not show any hesitation. Indeed, she did not feel tired at the moment. If Jeanne called his associates out of the ordinary, it was very likely that he had important things to convey, and much as she loved her friends, she would not necessarily entrust the judgement of the shifts of the situation in Paris to Elodie. She had an inherent ability to see the good in everything and everyone – while Adelaide did consider it naïve, she also to some extent admired this quality – and this sometimes blinded her to the truths of the matter.

No, despite the fatigue, it was better to go there herself and ask her own questions if need be.

Adelaide stepped up to the cupboard to take out her shawl – hers was correctly placed in the appropriate drawer – and wound it around her shoulders.

"I'll go", she confirmed again, taking a piece of bread from the kitchen stand with her on the way. And Elodie, as if defeated, gave an almost disappointed sigh.

"All right", she said. "All right. Just wait a moment. I'm coming with you."

"So." The man who called himself Joseph Sicar huddled down in one of the corners of the abandoned cellar he had led Sylvain to and invited the boy via a gesture of his hand to follow suit. Sylvain hesitated. The place stank of fish and rot, but for a boy living in an elephant that was infested by rats and worse, this was not a true obstacle. It was dry and shielded them from the evening downpour when the dreary heaviness of the day's heat unleashed not a thunderstorm but at least a gust of rain.

However, Sylvain, being a child of the streets, was naturally wary. Those uncautious easily fell prey to all sorts of predators, and he had not yet decided if Joseph Sicar was one of the few benevolent people one encountered from time to time, or if he followed his own agenda much like everyone else and would, in the end, only try to use Sylvain as long as it suited him.

True friendship, that he knew and at times mourned, was a rare thing on the streets.

However, Sylvain was willing to give the man the benefit of a doubt – if only because he had rescued him out of a very real danger, and that had to account for something, whatever would happen next.

Therefore, cautiously keeping his distance, he none the less crawled under the part of the cellar where the roof was still relatively whole, next to Sicar but with a cautious distance none the less.

"Will you tell me", Joseph Sicar began again while the rain was drumming a merciless march onto the patchy roof, "how you earned the favor of that particular creature?"

Sylvain wondered what he should, what he could tell him. It had been difficult enough to reveal the tale to Gavroche – whom he trusted implicitly. Now with a stranger, it made him feel infinitely more uncomfortable. However, being honest with himself, he had to admit that Joseph had earned at least a part of the truth by saving him the way he had today.

And, all things considered, Joseph was not a complete stranger after all. Sylvain had never met him, but his name had been mentioned several times during that evening in the Café Musain, where students and revolutionaries had, on the sidelines, worried about his whereabouts. To make things worse, Gavroche had told them to keep an eye out for him.

In that, at least, he would have been successful, even though he would have missed the gypsies.

"I have done some stuff for him", Sylvain explained therefore. "Run errands. Watched people. And then, one of the people I watched for him turned up dead."

In the half-darkness, Sylvain could see Joseph's mouth moving in a wry expression. He frowned slightly, then nodded to himself.

"Marcel Devereux, I guess", he then answered, and Sylvain felt some surprise at the fact that he knew this, but he did not dare to ask.

"Yes", he answered instead.

"And I presume you have conveyed this to the friends of Marcel Devereux", Joseph continued, looking at Sylvain and even in the darkness his eyes were strikingly bright. "Did you not?"

"They made a painting", Sylvain admitted weakly, and now Joseph threw back his head and laughed, for a moment only, but with deep amusement.

"Ah. I see. That explains why you are not popular with him."

Sylvain, chewing on his thumbnail, nodded.

"Guess so."

"That makes us birds of a feather then", Joseph admitted drily. "In more than one sense."

Sylvain frowned at this comment and tried to remember what little he had heard of Joseph Sicar before. Member of one of the student groups. Currently not in Paris. But Gavroche had thought he was in Paris and had asked them to listen out for him. Among many other things.

All these informations considered Sylvain concluded that Joseph Sicar was a strange man. And Sylvain decided that he should try and find out something more about him.

"How so?"

Joseph hesitated for a moment, and then, with a shrug, apparently seemed to decide that whatever he was considering did not matter.

"I may have commited a similar mistake", he admitted, scratching his black beard in embarrassment. "Different, but… well. It does not matter. So, this man intends to silence the voice of the person who knows his face, hm?"

Sylvain nodded uncomfortably.

"I guess so."

"So, where have you met this… man?" Joseph continued, propping up his forearms on his knees. Sylvain shrugged somewhat embarrassed.

"Here'n there", he said. "Sometimes he told me where to go, sometimes he just found me somewhere. Never the same place, kind of."

"Ah", Sicar said and nodded. In the half-light he cut a somber figure. His beard hid his thoughts very well, and Sylvain found it an effort not to squirm. "How did this start, after all?"

Again, Sylvain could not avoid to shrug.

"Easy. We're always looking for a job or other. He offered one, and so I took it. Wanted some stuff, told me to run some errands. The pay was all right, so I did it."

"Did you know who you were following?"

"Well, I guessed they were students or summat. But I didn't know they were friends of Gavroche… or rather friends of Gavroche's friends. That, I only got later."

"When one of them turned up dead, I presume." The humor in Sicar's voice was dry, and Sylvain believed he saw a sardonic smile wandering over his features.

"Yeah", Sylvain admitted. "That was when."

"Ah." Joseph began to absent-mindedly nick along his broken fingernails. His whole appearance showed signs of wear and neglect, signs of rough life that Sylvain knew well. But the man in front of him had seen better days.

"Why did you help me?" The question was out while he was still wondering if it was wise asking it. Sylvain did not want to anger him, or to even seem ungrateful. But he did not know what to make of the situation, and so he took his heart into his hand. Joseph gave a sharp, humorless bark.

"Well, Sylvain. To put it bluntly, I need your help."

The gamin frowned.

"Why?"

Joseph chuckled again, and the lines around his mouth were bitter.

"To do the things that you – as you just put it – do best. Run a few errands. Keep your eyes open. Alas, I am not as well funded as your ill-meaning friend out there. I cannot pay you. But you owe me a favor and I intend to call it."

Sylvain felt a brief surge of panic. It was true – the network of favors and payback was one of the earliest lessons on the streets. And yes, under every rule of the game that he knew, Joseph was well within his right to call this favor. But what was disquieting was something else.

From what he had heard, Joseph Sicar was a student of sorts. So, as a general rule, he should not have known that much about how the underworld of Paris worked.

Sylvain frowned and turned towards the older man, tensing up slightly.

"How do you know about that?"

Joseph's eyes turned hard.

"Let us call it the product of a wasted youth."

Sylvain wondered what that meant. Had he been a gamin? Had he known gamins? There was no time to ponder that question.

"What would I have to do?" he asked, fighting the feeling that he had come from the frying pan directly into the fire. And then, taking together all the courage he possessed: "I don't… I don't want to see the next one dead."

Silence fell for a moment, and then Joseph huffed slightly, his shoulders shrugging in an almost resigned gesture.

"That is something that no one can guarantee, little boy", Joseph said. "And that may not be something any of us has in our hands. But I will confess I have… somewhat lost contact to my own group as well as the others. You, however, via those friends of yours, seem to be much closer to them. What I need to know is what's going on. What they are planning. Where they are meeting."

Sylvain frowned. "Why? They're your friends. Why don't you ask them yourselves?"

"Because the situation is not that simple, little boy." Joseph ran both hands through his unruly hair. "Because things are not as they seem to be. Because things happened that were never intended." He sighted. "The details don't matter, but for now, I do not care very much for a meeting with some of my old friends for reasons that are my own. None the less, I am as affected of this story as you are, or as them. There may come a day where I am asking you to talk to them on my behalf. Who knows. Nothing is safe these days…"

Sylvain chewed on his cheeks absent-mindedly. He was not sure what to make of the man in front of him. And he had definitely been too trusting in the past. But on the other hand, he was doing what Gavroche had asked him to do - to find out more about Joseph Sicar than he knew before.

That, if nothing else, conivinced him.

"All right", he said. "All right. Why not."

"Can… you say that again?"

Almost involuntarily, Courfeyrac tensed at the deceptive calm in Enjolras' voice. His friend's eys were breathing fire, fingers slowly forming fists, not a threatening gesture but rather a way to release the tension that was running through him.

The air in the room was thick enough to cut, and rage was hanging together with disaster in the air.

Across the room, Bahorel took a deep breath and Bossuet braced himself for another tirade. That he was furious was as obvious as it was understandable, but his angry account had been difficult to understand, and fairly loud into the bargain. But he did not manage to launch into another fit of rage.

"I am afraid it is true." Instead of Bahorel, Laurent Abati answered to the request. The young doctor of the Picpus group seemed an adequate counterpoint to Bahorel, for he was calm, arms crossed, a soft frown on his face. The epitome of stoicism, Courfeyrac thought, and wondered where the man could find this peace of mind – or composure, whatever it was. He was not sure if he found the display admirable or unsettling - especially given the fact that the Picpus cell had suffered most of all.

The rest of those assembled for ehe evening in Enjolras' apartment – Bossuet, Joly and Marius – were watching the scenery with various mixtures of horror and surprise, while Courfeyrac himself was not sure of his thoughts on the matter.

He worried for Jehan and felt angry at the betrayal. And yet, it had been clear for a while that there must have been some sort of betrayal from deep within the revolutionary groups – and having found one of those leaks was, to a certain extent, calming.

"Frater Antoine, whom we have considered our friend and a member of our society, has betrayed us." Laurent, speaking again what they all knew already, began to walk towards Enjolras, unfolding his arms and measuring his steps, retracing thoughts and words in a methodic manner that reminded Enjolras of Combeferre. "I have been told – and I have no reason to doubt this – that he has been seen, and more than once, with the man that has attacked you in the market. Upon learning this, your friend Prouvaire has tried to confront him and barely escaped with his life. It seems, that in the chapel that Frater Antoine was using during his works for the Picpus group, the body of the man who attacked you was found."

"He's dead", Enjolras echoed, frowning in irritation, and Courfeyrac felt an irrational surge of triumph. That, at least, was one piece of good news, and the deep breath of relief that Marius took next to him told him that he was not the only one feeling it. Alfonse Rébucy had been a gruesome man indeed, and a world without him surely was a better world. Enjolras, in an absent-minded gesture, let his hand slide to his pocket, where Courfeyrac knew he was keeping a small pistol. He wondered what his friend was thinking.

"So it seems, yes", Abati continued, nodding. "I have not seen the body myself, but Bahorel has, and Prouvaire as well."

"How did he die?" Courfeyrac was not sure if Joly's eyes were alight by morbid curiosity, scientific interest, a wish for revenge or a mixture of all of these, but he decided to let it pass. The last days had all of them unsettled, and Joly, being the medical man he was, probably wished to hear more gruesome details, if only to ensure himself of the truth of the information.

Bahorel simply ran a digit over his throat and made a corresponding sound.

"Someone has cleaned the bastard, though", he growled. "If I didn't know better, I would have thought that Antoine sorry for him."

"Maybe he was", Bossuet mused. "We don't know what happened."

"One murderer killed another, that's what happened", Bahorel answered dismissively. Bossuet, however, shook his head.

"Do we know that?" he asked softly, and something ugly flashed through Bahorel's eyes.

"Let's focus on the most important things." That was Joly, finding his way into the discussion again. His brows were creased in sorrow. "How's Jehan?"

"Hurt", Bahorel answered. "The madman tried to strangle him and if it hadn't been for the street girl he probably would have. The other Picpus brothers said there'd be no lasting damage – like I would believe them anyting today. But Jehan said he'd stay to recover. I'm not sure whether to admire or loathe his faith in humanity. Or whether it's something to do with that street girl."

Bossuet gave a light groan and Courfeyrac had to check himself not to join in. It was all too much like Jehan to find something romantic even in such a situation.

"I do not think that the whole Picpus order is behind this", Enjolras mused instead, coming back to the original point of Bahorel's irritation. "There are quite a number of considerations to the contrary."

"Such as?" the Courfeyrac asked, and Enjolras ticked the points off his fingers.

"Considering the attacks that we know of or that we heard rumors of, I would suspect that we are looking at a group of no more than ten that is opposing us directly. Of those, a couple of faces are known – the man that attacked us in the market, the jester in Issy, the little burglar that broke into the de Cambout house, the man who killed Devereux. And now, Frater Antoine. If the whole of Picpus were behind this plot, we might have seen more assassins. Or at least less exotic ones."

Bahorel gazed at him for a moment, but Enjolras obviously felt that he had sufficiently explained himself. To see Picpus behind this conspiracy was unrealistic enough to discard this hypothesis into their planning.

Courfeyrac felt somewhat inclined to agree.

"So Jehan will stay there until tomorrow", he asked for confirmation and Abati nodded.

"From a medical point of view this seems the wisest as well. From what I can tell, he has no injury that will lead to lasting damage, but there is shock and pain, and I do think the calm night in the monastery will do him good."

"Yeah. That Father Coudrin seems to be at least genuinely grieved at the whole thing." Bahorel admitted this only grudgingly, but the fact that he admitted it at all was encouraging.

"Well, then let's all hope for the best, shall we?" Marius proposed, trying to sound encouraging. "And be glad that we have one less enemy, at least, and one more that we know."

"True enough." Enjolras nodded in appreciation for Marius. "So, let us collect our stray sheep. Feuilly is staying at the apartment in Rue de Chanvrerie." Gavroche nodded. "Combeferre is with Le Globe, but I think we can rely on him coming back here as soon as their work there is finished."

"It is much too early yet for that", Marius confirmed. "If they're fast, they will be with the final layout now, but knowing Combeferre I guess he would want to wait for the first prints at least."

Enjolras nodded absent-mindedly, and Courfeyrac wondered if he had even heard it.

"All right. Jehan is in Picpus. The rest of us is here."

He began to pace again.

"So when is Galois' burial tomorrow?"

"Around three in the afternoon", Bossuet answered. "The students said that they would assemble at two, some at the cemetery itself, some at the Sorbonne, to go towards the funeral place."

"Yes, I thought so. So, what we need is leaflets until then. Marius, I know that the print shop of Le Globe will be running at top capacity right now, but when they finished the paper, will you ask if they can print a few new leaflets for us? I do not think we have time to draft something new, perhaps you can discuss with Combeferre which of the old ones will do."

Marius nodded in response, the slight frown on his face showing that he probably already went through their recent publications to find out which would be the most appropriate.

"Wouldn't it be senseful to give a hint on the leaflets to the burial of Alexandre?" he asked. "That would help us not to have to rely on the word of mouth."

"But alert the authorities", Laurent Abati warned.

"True", Enjolras answered. "But I think this risk could be taken for the benefit of a greater audience."

"And", Courfeyrac stepped into the discussion, "in all honesty, if the authorities cannot imagine that – especially if tomorrow there is already a display at Galois' funeral - that Alexandre's funeral will go unnoticed, that would be very surprising for me."

Bossuet chuckled.

"One can think quite a lot about the pear, but yes, I would not consider his people that stupid."

Enjolras nodded.

"So we should make sure that all our associates know about the event tomorrow. Therefore, Bossuet and Joly, I know that you have already spent a long time walking around the city, but I would ask you to spread the word first thing in the morning. I think Picpus can be omitted – I trust Abati to pass on that message – but the others need to be notified."

"We can speak to the Saint Antoine group, if you want", Abati offered. "We do have some connections there, and it would make things a little easier for you. Also, we will bring some leaflets of our own, and for the rest I will have to discuss with my comrades."

"Thank you", Enjolras nodded curtly. "The offer is appreciated. In addition, I think we should try to attract more attention again, to alert the people and rise them again. It has been a while since we have given speeches in public places, and I think it is high time that this would be remedied. Courfeyrac, you and Marius should pick a place for a display tomorrow – I was thinking probably about Place Notre Dame, or even Lamarque's house. Myself…" he took a deep breath, and for a moment his lips paled, and he almost seemed slightly unsettled. "Myself", he reiterated, his voice only slightly wavering, "I will go back to Corinthe."

And then, the apartment was silent again.

The others had left, for Le Globe, Joly's apartment and the Elephant, and now Enjolras and Courfeyrac were the only ones that remained, sitting on armchair and sofa respectively, chatting quietly about the events of the day.

Courfeyrac tried to discern the mood of his friend and found it supremely difficult. Superficially, Enjolras was the same as ever, commanding and stern, but in repose, there was a note to his countenance that Courfeyrac had not seen on him before.

It was the death of Grantaire, certainly, that was weighing on him. They had been found together, and Courfeyrac remembered the last, hectic seconds before the building had collapsed. He had seen how Grantaire had lurched to protect what he had admired with all that was in him.

And it had cost him his life.

Somehow, Courfeyrac suspected that Enjolras knew.

"Are you all right, my friend?"

To his credit, Enjolras did not dismiss the question right closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before answering.

"As much as can be expected", he said, and Courfeyrac gave a kind laugh at that.

"I was fearing that sort of response."

Enjolras looked at him, blue, cool eyes lacking their usual strength.

"It was an honest one", he answered, "and I thought this was what you were looking for. These are not easy days, but revolutions never are. It is good that things are coming into motion."

Courfeyrac nodded slowly.

"I guess we are all tired."

Enjolras nodded.

"We are. We are an army besieged, even before revolution started. But this only shows how close to success, how dangerous we are. And we must be strong if success is to be had."

"I know all that", Courfeyrac answered. "I was concerned for the friend. Not the leader of the revolution."

"There is no difference", Enjolras said, his voice cool and hard, and Courfeyrac felt a surge of pity, sadness almost.

"There is"; he said, softly. "I know it for I know both."

"And yet, then the friend must step aside for now", Enjolras answered. "And so must concern. For my friends and allies. And so must sorrow for the one that died for me. The next days will give no time for considerations such as these. The next days will be war, and in war, we need to be cold and hard. You would do well to remember that."

Courfeyrac swallowed hard at the lump in his throat at this roundabout admittance, this brief glimpse at the heart of his friend, pained as it was, and strong as it must be. Enjolras had ever been hard on others, but hardest on himself, and this was what made him what he was.

As much as Courfeyrac felt sorry for his pain.

"I see", he said softly. "I understand. Just do not forget that we are here as well."

The smile on Enjolras face was minuscule, slightly sad and seemed to be called forth somewhat despite himself, as if part of his demeanor was still resisting.

"So everyone assures me", he said, "one way or the other; both from expected and unexpected sources. And it is well. For one man alone can never bring about revolution. A group however", and now, the smile was gone again, replaced by something cold, and hard, and proud. "A group will unleash a storm."