16

Enjolras' breath hitched in his throat and his eyes snapped up, searching Éponine's expression for any insincerity. He found none. Her words had pulled him back from a frightening precipice, from a ledge which he had been rapidly approaching. It was as though she had struck a match and lit a candle in his soul, and Enjolras walked unsteadily to her bedside with a look of reverence in his eyes. He fell to his knees, his tears falling afresh, and pressed his virgin lips to the thin fingers of Éponine's uninjured hand. She turned her head to look compassionately at Enjolras, the ghost of a sad smile peeking from the corners of her mouth. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, its tempo increasing with every passing second. Before there was time for either to speak, the door to the chamber opened with a loud creak and in walked Éponine's nurse.

"What impropriety is this!" she shrieked from the doorway. It was all the poor old woman could do to keep from dropping the tray of food and medicine in shock, and she shuffled toward the two as fast as her angry old legs could carry her.

"Maman Simplice!" Éponine croaked, struggling to come to a sitting position, "This man is my friend, En –"

"Friend!" the old woman scoffed. She placed the tray on the sparse nightstand behind Éponine's head. Scuttling furiously, Madame Simplice made her way back around the cot to loom over Enjolras, who had remained as silent and still as stone. Her wrinkled hands were planted firmly on her hips, the whiteness of her skin creating a stark contrast with the black fabric of her elegantly conservative dress.

"And who are you?" she demanded of Enjolras, squinting her dark eyes at him. Despite being nearly sixty-seven, Madame Simplice had magnificent sight. She was merely squinting for effect.

"E-excuse me for my lack of manners, madame," Enjolras replied. He reluctantly let go of Éponine's hand and stood, now towering over the hunched old woman by a good five inches. He looked back at Éponine, raising an eyebrow questioningly. She nodded understandingly. "My name is Jean-Luc Enjolras, I am a… a friend of mademoiselle Thénardier."

The makeshift nurse grunted in response, sweeping her eyes over Enjolras in appraisal. She took in every detail, from the appallingly disheveled blonde curls on the top of his head to the flecks of mud still clinging to his boots, and gave a tut of disapproval. As she went to turn back to her patient, Madame Simplice's shrewd gaze fell on Enjolras' nondescript leather bag, filled to bursting with the clothes and personal effects he had taken with him from his flat. The bag would have gone unnoticed, had it not been for the sleeve of a burgundy jacket poking out from the side.

"Is this yours?"

Enjolras started, following Madame Simplice's gaze with impatience. He recognized his bag by Éponine's bedside and nodded slowly, questioningly. The anger that flashed across the old woman's face was fierce enough to intimidate the marble man, keeping him silent.

"I would like for you to leave this room, monsieur Enjolras," Madame Simplice said flatly, exaggerating the "monsieur." The look in her sharp eyes indicated that she was not allowing room for an argument, and Enjolras was too weary for one in the first place. He nodded curtly and, bowing stiffly to Éponine and the old woman, grabbed his bag and limped from the room. From the dim hall, he could hear Madame Simplice bustling around within the chamber while Éponine spoke hurriedly to her. He leaned against the wall and angled his head to the thin door, straining his ears.

"Maman," she entreated, "Why were you so rude to monsieur Enjolras? He's a rich man – rich like you."

"I can give you many reasons, dear child," replied the old woman, her tone condescending. The bustling noises stopped and Enjolras imagined that she stood before Éponine, ancient hands on her hips intimidatingly. "He was dressed appallingly – did you see the mud and blood on him? He must've taken a bath in it! – and, on top of his horrendous clothes, the two of you were alone together! This monsieur Enjolras could have tried to harm you. Soldiers should never be trusted. Did you see that bag of his?"

Éponine gave no reply, but Enjolras thought he could practically hear her rolling her eyes. Her silence was followed by a mumbled and pointed repetition of the question by Madame Simplice.

"Enjolras isn't a soldier, maman. He was the leader of la révolution." The old woman scoffed again."And besides, what about the bag?" Éponine hissed, apparently offended.

"He was planning on sleeping in this chamber with you, child, can you understand that?"

Silence followed. He couldn't deny that he felt stung by Madame Simplice's remark and Éponine's lack of defense, but his apathy soon reached up and swallowed the fleeting emotions whole. Before the woman resumed her work, she added another, "Alone!" for good measure, to which Éponine heaved a great sigh.

"Sighing is not ladylike! There shall be no sighing, mademoiselle!" Madame Simplice commanded. Though he could not see her wrinkled face, Enjolras knew by the tone of her voice that she was chastising with a smile.

"Oui, maman," her patient grumbled, obviously pouting. The cot creaked beneath Éponine's weight as she shifted position with a grunt.

Enjolras straightened up, the realization of what he had been doing finally dawning on him. Eavesdropping was never justified; he knew that. Silently apologizing to the women behind the door, he limped dignifiedly away from the alcove. Enjolras took a seat on a bench a little ways down the short hall and waited for Madame Simplice to emerge, dreading the unknown amount of time he would have to spend alone – a prisoner to his own thoughts. To be alone was dangerous.

Luckily, he didn't have too long to wait. Five minutes of twiddling his thumbs later, Enjolras was relieved to hear the old door creak on its hinges, quickly followed by the rustling noise of Madame Simplices' petticoats as she stepped into the shadowy corridor.

"Madame!" Enjolras called, grabbing his leather bag and pushing himself up from the dusty bench. Madame Simplice's head whipped around at the sound of his voice.

"Yes?" she asked with a warmth that had been absent from her voice when she had addressed him last. Enjolras paused momentarily, the confusion that flashed across his face going unseen through the gloom, before continuing to limp quickly towards the old woman. She waited patiently, drumming her fingers distractedly on the now empty tray she carried.

"How is mademoiselle?" he asked when he finally stood before her, checking his emotion and asking the question with an air of cool indifference. This was a mistake.

"Quite ill," replied Madame Simplice with a sniff, the warmth cooling to something akin to disdain at his emotionless question. She turned her back on Enjolras before continuing, "I would assume that she has an infection from her wounds."

"That could be fatal," he mused matter-of-factly. Again, his words came out cold and flat, and Madame Simplice's obvious dislike rolled off of her bent frame in waves. Had she studied his face in that moment however, the look of despair and terror in his eyes would have melted her heart.

"Oui, mais," she said, stalking away, "I can fix her with help from God, our Father."

"Let me help."

Madame Simplice came to an abrupt stop, nearly dropping the wooden tray. Turning slowly, she gave Enjolras a horrified look of surprise that would have had Courfeyrac laughing for weeks had he seen it. Enjolras winced at the thought.

"Please."

It was a word which he had little practice saying, but the determination with which he uttered it made up for that. Madame Simplice narrowed her eyes at him through the shadows and pursed her thin lips, weighing the consequences. She raked her gaze over Enjolras once more, witheringly. Enjolras raised his chin defiantly and balled his fists by his sides, but he could not cover the pleading look behind his eyes.

"No," she said finally, holding up a long finger when Enjolras looked as though he was preparing to argue. "You are a garçon, she is a fille, and this is a house of God."

With a loud snap, Enjolras clenched his mouth shut. A muscle was twitching along the right side of his jawline. Part of him, the less-than-sensible side, wanted nothing more than to dive head-long into a list of reasons why he thought himself qualified to help. The other side, the chaste and rational one, thought it best to let Madame Simplice have her way. Begrudgingly, Enjolras bowed his head with a sigh, signifying defeat. The old woman let out a triumphant "Hmph!"

"Now that that's settled," said Madame Simplice as she scuttled along the murky corridor, not checking to see if Enjolras was following her, "let us go and find monsignor D'Arc and arrange your accommodations."

Enjolras let out a heavy sigh, massaging the back of his sore neck. Had it really not even been an entire day? He cast a quick glance around his small room, identical to Éponine's but on the other side of the church.

Is she going to be alright? Enjolras asked himself, pacing wearily. Madame Simplice had left him in a hurry; Éponine's condition had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Her fever had spiked and she was unconscious, the pain of her wounds and the infection pulling her under once more.

"Of course she will be alright," he growled. The stone walls of his room gave no answer and an anxious knot formed in the pit of Enjolras' stomach. He had always been a man of action; waiting and guessing had never been his game. Enjolras stopped pacing, the gash in his thigh thanking him. He let his mind wander to places he knew that it ought not.

Éponine may very well die, of that he was aware and must find a way of accepting. His friends had died, every last one of them, and he had been there for them. He should have died with them. But now this girl, this innocent who was caught beneath the wheels of life, was suffering just beyond his door. Was Enjolras to stay there? To sleep? To dream of gun smoke and failure, while one of the bravest, and the last in his acquaintance who was alive, slipped quietly away?

"No."

Madame Simplice scurried sleepily toward her patient's room, her hands laden with moist towels, food, and a candle. She had had little sleep while taking care of Éponine and had only left the room when the bells struck five o'clock in the morning long enough to get essentials. Returning a half an hour later, Madame Simplice noticed something lying by the door that had previously been hidden by the early morning gloom: the sleeping form of Enjolras. She studied him through narrowed eyes by the dim light of her candle and the early morning rays peeking through the window above his head.

Enjolras slept with his torso propped against the rough, unfinished stone wall, his head lolling at an angle that made the old woman's neck ache. He had his legs extended in front of him with a scrap of cloth, spotted with blood, pressed against his upper left thigh. Enjolras' other hand lay open, palm up, against his other leg as though he were begging for alms. Madame Simplice shook her head and made ready to brush past him without saying anything before her gaze fell upon his face. His stony expression was softened by sleep, but worry and sorrow seemed permanently etched across his countenance, just below the surface. The light filtering through the window caught on his golden mane in such a way that gave Enjolras the appearance of having a halo. He was radiant; an angel. Madame Simplice's heart, accustomed and hardened to seeing the starving poor of Paris, went out to the sleeping man.

Perhaps he would not be so bad after all, she thought with a small and cynical smile. Enjolras, apparently having a nightmare, woke with a shout. He glanced around wildly trying to regain his bearings and assure himself that it was just a dream. When he recognized the church and felt the aching in his joints from the fighting and the unyielding floor, Enjolras exhaled sadly and rested his head against the stone wall, eyes shut. Again Madame Simplice took pity on him, and crept up to him slowly, cooing as one might to a baby.

"Monsieur Enjolras, I have had a change of heart," she whispered. He looked up at her, blue eyes clouded with sleep and terror left over from his dreams, but didn't appear to understand what she meant. Madame Simplice repeated her statement. "I need you to help me with mademoiselle."

Rising from the floor carefully, Enjolras asked her why she had changed her mind, to which the old woman responded, "That is none of your business, young man."

"Very well, madame," he replied, rolling his sore neck and stretching as painlessly as he could. Sleeping on the floor may not have been the best idea after all. Madame Simplice noticed his favoring one leg at last and silently scolded herself for not seeing his wound sooner. "What would you like me to do?"

"First," Madame Simplice said, handing Enjolras two of the moist towels and taking his soiled rag, "let us go get you cleaned up. We can't have someone in your condition taking care of another not too much worse off, now can we?" He accepted the cloths wordlessly, the tenderness of sleep falling away and his usual hard expression slipping back into place. Enjolras kept his mouth shut, his fine lips pressed together in a thoughtful frown.

"Come back here at half-past six, clean, shaved, and ready to work. If you are even one minute late, monsieur, you have lost your chance," she warned. And with that, Madame Simplice bustled past him and into Éponine's room, shutting the door very pointedly behind her.

A/N: Hey guys! So, for those of you who know French, I realize that "maman" is a very personal pet name that may seem weird right now, considering the class stratification, but it'll all make sense in the next chapter or two with a look into Madame Simplice's character. Also, sorry this isn't a very long chapter, but trust me! I've got the next three/four planned out already. I hope you like it, have a great rest of your day!

PS: I got into Wake Forest University today! And I'm waiting on Duke! Ahhh!