4

The bells of Notre Dame began to toll, signaling the arrival of midnight. As the ringing died away, the spell that had been holding the two together died, too. With an uncertain cough Enjolras stepped away from Éponine. He straightened his signature black vest, obviously flustered. His look of insecurity vanished at the sight of the small grin playing on Éponine's lips. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry and her body had finally stopped shaking. Neither spoke for what felt like an hour, looking anywhere but at each other.

"When will it start? The fighting, I mean."

"I suspect it will all start tomorrow – or rather, today," Enjolras replied with a confident smirk and a nod toward Notre Dame. "On the tomb of Lemarque shall our barricade rise."

"Where, monsieur?" she asked, wringing her hands nervously in front of her chest. She looked into Enjolras' face boldly for the first time since she had slapped him. Her cheeks began to colour slightly at the memory.

Enjolras cocked his head to the side, studying her by the increasing light of the moon. Does she mean to fight with us? Is it all for Pontmercy, or is it perhaps because she supports the cause? He hoped it was the latter. She held his gaze while he considered her motives, stopping her nervous hand movements to cross her arms in front of her chest. The stern look she was giving him was the mirror image of his own.

"At the Rue de la Chanverrerie," he finally answered. She gave him a nod of understanding, looking across the bridge in the direction of the Rue Saint-Denis and imagined the barricades and blood. Enjolras followed her gaze and sighed wistfully.

One day more, they thought in unison.

Clearing his throat Enjolras turned to Éponine. She turned her eyes to him with difficulty, as though she had seen spotted something which she had been searching for on the opposite bank. Her brown eyes were glassy with thought and not tears, and the smile on her smudged face was tinged with the marks of a sad epiphany, but the effect of her smile was the same as earlier at the Café. She was beautiful in her distraction.

"Let me see you home, mademoiselle. It is late and I am still far too restless for sleep." There was no question in his unwavering blue stare and Éponine knew that arguing would get her nowhere. She avoided the situation however, by explaining that she shouldn't go home until the next night, or perhaps the night after that. Her father would be upset that she had no money to bring home. And Marius is there, mooning over that stupid Cosette.

Enjolras started to reach into his pockets and the gamine stopped him with a gentle touch to his right forearm. She shook her head sadly, her beautiful smile gone and replaced by a look of weariness.

"I don't want your money, sir," she mumbled.

"I apologize," said Enjolras, holding up his hands contritely, "but where will you go?"

Éponine laughed. It was a sound devoid of humor and filled instead with incredulity. The laugh was short and rough, quite unlike what a woman's laugh should be. Her voice was always hoarse and as melodious as a gunshot, but her laughter at this moment was unnerving. Enjolras wondered how often she laughed.

"Monsieur, you don't need to worry about a street rat like me. Éponine knows her way around," she replied, sarcasm and double entendre oozing from every word. Enjolras sighed in defeat.

"In that case, goodnight," he said with a small bow. His face was as unreadable as marble again, but his demeanor indicated that he was displeased with her decision. Gamine or not, she was still a woman and the streets of Paris were unsafe. Enjolras was always a gentleman, despite his stony exterior.

The girl, who hadn't moved throughout their conversation except to stare strangely into the darkness, surprised Enjolras. In two quick steps she covered the distance between them and softly planted a kiss on Enjolras' cheek. Without another word or a second glance, Éponine turned and walked toward the Quai de la Mégisserie.

"The only woman I will ever understand is France," he whispered into the night. He rubbed his cheek where her lips had been thoughtfully and watched as Éponine's retreating figure was swallowed by the darkness.

"Please, someone just blow out the sun," groaned Grantaire. He blew at the rays of light feebly, screwing his eyes shut against the sun that was filtering in through the windows of the Café. In the excitement of the previous night's impromptu war planning, Grantaire had gotten even drunker than usual and had passed out, face first, on the bar. His back was aching and his mouth was dry but he couldn't help but feel the secondhand excitement that seemed to linger in the empty tavern.

With a sleepy smile he sat up and stretched like a cat. Looking down he saw the note that had been left for him poking out from beneath his half-full mug of ale. The note read:

Do not forget to meet Lesgle and Gavroche in Les Halles at noon. – E

"I shan't forget, but perhaps I just won't show," he sneered at the note, chuckling at his own wit. Grantaire combed his tangled curls with his hand haphazardly, doing so more out of boredom than out of vanity, and stood stiffly to straighten out his rumpled clothing.

The bells of the city's churches began to ring loudly and Grantaire counted the rings thoughtfully. Nine, he noted with a sigh and a loving thought of the comfortable bed in his townhouse. He had three hours; he should go home to the Rue Jacob and get more sleep, or perhaps get in a little bit of exercise with a lovely lady.

"After all," Grantaire said as he pocketed the note and left an extra five francs on the bar for the owner's kindness, "I won't be missed if I don't turn up. Enjolras can play war without me, just this once."

Éponine woke early, despite having been wandering the streets until well past midnight. She had spent the night with her brother Gavroche in the elephant statue which he called home. When she had rolled over to wish the little blonde boy a good morning, she found that he had already left. He and I can't be related, she thought in disbelief.

She stood slowly, her achy joints popping like an old woman's the whole way up. The life of the poor was almost guaranteed to age even the heartiest prematurely, and Éponine was miserably frail. When she was finally upright and done creaking, she climbed the rickety rope ladder up and out of the elephant and emerged into the warm June sunshine. Her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of it all; the view of Paris from the alleyways couldn't compare to the view from above. For a few moments she simply sat in the opening at the top of the statue and basked in the early morning sun.

"I wonder if this is how it feels to be rich," Éponine muttered, a crooked smile sneaking across her features. Sighing regretfully at having to leave her throne, she clambered down with all the grace of a young boy. Her dark green skirt blew up in the summer breeze but it was early enough that hardly anyone was walking about. Just as her dirty bare feet hit the even dirtier pavement, the church bells began to sing out the time. It was nine o'clock in the morning on June the 5th.

"Right on time," Éponine sang to herself, her cacophonous voice tinged with sorrow and resignation as she dashed off quickly in the direction of the Gorbeau House. She had too much to do this morning to bother with walking or thoughts of Marius. Éponine was so distracted that she had almost forgotten what had happened the night before. Almost.

Enjolras couldn't forget. It took him at least three hours after Éponine had left to calm his buzzing mind enough to even consider walking home to sleep. When he finally trudged back to his home on the Quai des Grand-Augustins, his mind blank from exhaustion, he fell into an overstuffed arm chair in the living room and slept like the dead.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of the bells of Notre Dame de Paris ringing nine times. His heart skipped a beat when he realized what time it was. There is work we have to do. Enjolras stood up groggily and stumbled into his bedroom, calling for a warm bath to be drawn. He stood in front of his mirror and stared into his own cornflower blue eyes, searching the depths of his soul for the strength to do what he must today. To be able to send men to their deaths. To be able to send himself there, too. Did he have it in him to do it, once and for all?

Enjolras' thoughts turned to Éponine: her sad eyes, her ripped dress, the dirt that covered her once beautiful face. He owed it to her – to France, and to all those like her – to pick up his musket and fight.

"Monsieur, the water is ready!"

A/N: Sorry this seems a lot like a filler chapter, guys! I promise it was necessary though, and that the start of the revolution is coming up next! No, but really. I needed to establish some more of the feels, and a little bit more of Grantaire (he's gonna be pretty important, just you wait) before I could start anything else. You won't be disappointed with the next chapter, Scout's Honour!

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