A portrait of Alexandre Bahorel. A charming, disarming smile. Harsh, dark eyes. Long, disheveled bangs falling over his forehead in a dashing, devilish way. Rough sideburns. His whole demeanor spoke of an unbreakable, resolute man.

One quiet night at the Musain, the Friends of the ABC discussed in whispers the cholera epidemic ravaging the city. None of them knew why they whispered; they also did not know why Alexandre Bahorel, usually one of the first to arrive, was absent. Enjolras glanced up at the door every so often, distracting the others and Combeferre especially.

The evening deteriorated and found the young men idly staring at the old map of Paris hanging on the wall. The door creaked, and all heads turned.

Alexandre Bahorel stood in the doorway, his confident, wild smile on his face. But Combeferre caught the tense hands, the stiff legs, the twitch in his jaw. Courfeyrac caught the unusually well-groomed hair.

"Bahorel!" he cried, breaking the silence. "You finally took my advice."

Bahorel's face crushed in with confusion, but cleared an instant later, the confident smile back.

"Your hair," Courfeyrac amended. Bahorel nodded.

"Why are you late?" Enjolras asked, rising from his seat.

"Personal business. It's over now." His jaw tightened. "What did I miss?"

"Not much," replied Combeferre. "Is something wrong, Bahorel?"

Bahorel's face reddened. "No. Of course not."

"Why would you ask that, Combeferre?" said Courfeyrac. "Aside from being late, there's nothing wrong with Bahorel."

Bahorel nodded, and walked, stiffly (Combeferre noted), to his seat. While the meeting lasted, Bahorel sat still, drinking, the glasses accumulating on the table, more numerous than any night before. He did not engage the others or punctuate Enjolras' remarks with shouts or bangs on the table, as he often did. The meeting did not go on much longer, and soon everyone began leaving. Bahorel lingered, staring at his wine with glassy eyes. Combeferre waited until the others left, then approached him. "Bahorel, I know something's wrong," he said as he sat beside the larger man. "Tell me."

Bahorel closed his eyes and mumbled something.

Combeferre frowned, unsure if he heard right. "What?"

"My wife died today."

Combeferre stared at Bahorel, unable to formulate words. Several thoughts rushed to the fore of his mind all in a rush: Bahorel had been married? To whom? When? Why hadn't he told the others? How did she die?

Bahorel sighed and spoke in a low, shaking voice. "She – she died of cholera."

Combeferre thought of Adelaide, his own wife, and his heart chilled. He swallowed, and whispered, "Who was she?"

"Évelyne. Évelyne, my angel." A single tear coursed down his cheek.

"Why didn't you ever tell us?" Combeferre feared he sounded too accusing.

"I never thought to. She did not belong in this part of my world."

Combeferre regarded his friend in astonishment. Bahorel. Alexandre Bahorel, married, broken, weeping. He never imagined.

"I have a child."

Combeferre's astonishment knew no bounds. ". . . Bahorel. A child?"

"A little girl-child." A tiny smile, not charming, disarming, confident, or wild. More like vulnerable, bare, weak, lost. "Little Évelyne. No mother for Évelyne. Only a drunk scoundrel she must call father." He leaned onto the table, which groaned beneath his weight.

Combeferre's mind cleared. At last he knew what to say. "Bring her here sometime."

Bahorel shook his head, his long bangs brushing the top of the table. "Would Enjolras allow it?"

"Certainly. I know it. She will have many fathers." Combeferre hesitated, then brought his arm around Bahorel's hunched form. Bahorel stiffened, but otherwise did not move.

They remained thus for a long time.

Then Combeferre stood, put on his coat, and left.