A/N: Thanks to all who read and reviewed, followed and favourited this story. I really appreciate the support and feedback. Thanks also to judybear236 for comments

Comes the next chapter - and a lot is going on.

Enjoy - and leave me a comment if you want! It would make my day

Chapter 32: Cataclysm

"Because sometimes 'peace' is another word for surrender and secrets have a way of getting out."

The Jardin des Tuileries was beautiful even at night. The wide and open passages were lit with lamps, their orange glow like fireflies in the summer glory of the trees.

Aside from the main passages, there were alleyways, intrinsically wound in ivy and flowers, places of repose and quiet and now that the sun had left the sky; of dark.

A few members of the National Guard were strolling down the main passage and its smaller companions, a telltale sign that Louis Phillipe himself was walking in the gardens today as he was prone to do in times of turmoil, when reflection was needed and the path was not clear.

The presence of the king himself – as well as those who guarded him – made their meeting slightly more difficult, but the disturbance was small.

After all, both of them were fully within their right being here.

They had chosen a quiet spot in the back recesses of the garden, and after the Friend had ended his companion heaved a slight sigh.

"I see", he said and fell silent for a moment, lost to his own thoughts.

"I cannot allow it", the Friend emphasized. His posture was almost relaxed – he did not believe that showing outward tension was useful in a conversation like this, and yet his voice alone conveyed that the subject was important to him.

His companion frowned slightly and nodded.

"I remember, a long time ago, how you have vehemently argued for this man."

The Friend sighed. This was not unexpected, but annoying none the less.

"He was useful for a long while", he reminded his companion softly. "For ten years he was useful."

"Of course he was. Still I have told you, a rabid animal cannot be kept on a leash forever."

The Friend shrugged, dismissing the argument calmly.

"That is well possible." He let his gaze linger on the ivy before him. "I have your permission then?"

His companion stayed silent for a moment.

"Can we afford it?" he finally asked, his voice calm but still carrying a slight anxiousness. "The situation is tense."

"With all due respect", the Friend retorted, "we cannot not afford it. For what you say is true. What he has done is a fallback into the worst patterns. It was unfortunate that the girl has attracted his attention, and I would not have mourned her passing, but I agree that the situation is fast becoming uncontrollable. I do not think I can quench this urge of his with anything short of restraining him for a while."

"You have done it before."

The Friend nodded.

"Yes. But the time for that is over. When we first did it, he had no specific point of interest. Now he has. He will not rest."

"And if we let him kill her?"

The Friend shook his head violently.

"With all due respect, this is uncontrollable. Yes, he might be able to kill her. But he will not do it easily. He kept her in one of our hideouts to play his little games with her. This is exactly what he would do again. Given the fact that the girl has made friends this will attract unwanted attention. And although we have been careful", the smile on the Friend's face turned slightly sardonic, "he does know faces. And meeting locations."

Again, his companion pondered this in silence for a while.

"I understand", he finally said. "There shall be no noise though."

The smile on the Friend's face was delicate.

"Was there noise in Picpus?"

"You were preying on sheep. Now you are taking on a wolf."

The Friend smiled.

"I know what I am doing."

His companion nodded.

"I hope so, for both our sakes. You said there would be a replacement?"

"I would not call it that way", the Friend answered. "I would have proposed him, even if this unfortunate incident had not happened."

"I see. What is his motivation?"

"Grandeur, I would say. Curiosity. And of course a certain notion of freedom."

"Ah yes. That. They are on their way."

"That is good to hear", the Friend said. "Although we have been unsuccessful in acquiring the drawings."

"We will try to remedy that", his companion answered. "Or at least delay the discovery. That they have been seen at all is unfortunate."

"The clearest description is that of the Hound", the Friend reminded him. "The drawings of the Boy, the Juggler and the Knife are significantly vaguer, it seems."

"How fortunate." The sarcasm was impossible to miss.

"Indeed."

"Ah well."

"Has he chosen a name?"

"I have chosen one for him", the Friend smiled broadly. "A befitting one giving the future…"

A raised brow was the answer and the Friend continued.

"The Spark."

An hour later, the back room of the Musain was again buzzing with the activity that Éponine had come to expect from it, even though today, unlike the evening before, the quick whirlwind of discussions, arguments and tales seemed to be a bit more difficult to bear.

The effects of the drug were receding, although the nausea and dizziness had been joined by a feeling of freezing, which Joly had treated by lending her his jacket. She had considered arguing but decided against it, and in fact the warm cloth dispelled at least part of the shivering effortlessly.

The friends had placed together three of the tables to form one big round and had gathered around it, and she was sitting amidst them as if she had never done anything else.

Dinner was on the table, and even though the smell of the coq au vin was still a bit trying on her unsettled stomach, Joly had mercilessly convinced her to at least try and eat some soup. While she did not appreciate being patronized, she had to admit that it helped settle her stomach; if only to remove the hollow feeling and return some strength into her bones. She was certain she would need it.

The first one to arrive had been Jean Prouvaire, who had been in the company of a slightly older man that was known at least to some of the assembly. The foreigner excused himself after the exchange of a few pleasantries in a manner that told Éponine that he was somewhat uncomfortable with the situation that he found himself presented with.

Next were Marius and Combeferre, who, according to the discussions around the table, had been sent on a mission to Le Globe. Something seemed to have happened there, though, because Marius was slightly subdued despite Combeferre claiming that their errand had been successful, and he gave her nothing more than a curt nod, before he took up his place two seats away from here to glumly and thoughtfully stare into the glass that Courfeyrac placed in front of him.

Éponine was at equal measures dismayed at his disinterest and glad that she did not have to explain to him what had happened to her.

Last appeared the young worker named Feuilly, and there was a slightly tense moment when it turned out that he had not come alone.

At his side there was a young woman, blonde, blue-eyed, slightly round-faced, with a dimpled smile that almost allowed forgetting how exquisitely dressed she was.

Éponine remembered that Marius had told her once that women usually had no business being in the back room, but after a quick discussion – seeing as how she was here, and seeing as how there had been a number of ladies present the evening before – no one seemed to be too keen to stand on ceremony.

The woman took a seat next to Éponine and introduced herself as Katya – a first name without a last to go by, which was either curious given her obvious station or very self-explanatory if it was an attempt at stealth. The way she leaned into Feuilly's shoulder as he sat on her other side left no questions as to her relationship with him. Éponine was inclined to let the lady keep her secrets for the moment, though.

She filed her observation for further reference and watched as the discussion unfolded, as everyone recalled the events of their days and they evaluated, discussed and judged, as she now knew they were prone to do. Feeling slightly tense, she dreaded the moment when she would have to explain what had happened to her.

Sometime later later, the assembly had broken down into smaller groups that were discussing amongst themselves, and Éponine seriously asked herself why she had not fled from the place yet.

The second interrogation had been, if anything, even worse than the first, because the pity and worry was magnified, and while in an abstract sense, it was a glamorous thing that Marius of all people worried about her, there was something about his concern that put her on the edge.

Only a few moments later she realized that his reaction, although seeming genuine enough, had had the air of a reflex, a movement ingrained deeply into his being without reaching his core. He had fretted and asked for her well-being, but for the first time she realized that his heart was not fully in it. He was preoccupied and clearly thinking of something else.

The revelation seemed to enhance the nausea in her stomach again, and it made any kind words even more unbearable.

It was the woman named Katya, who chipped in a few sentences of her intention to mention the incident to some of her associates. The following discussion steered away from her very personal experience, and if nothing else, Éponine was grateful for that. She tried to discern from the friendly, almost homely face, whether her intervention had been intentional or not, but Katya's blue eyes had nothing to say on that matter.

And now that the general discussion was over, Éponine had gotten up to fill her mug from the small barrel that was placed in one corner of the room – it had apparently been Bahorel's turn to buy food and drinks today. From that location, she watched Katya standing at the exit of the back room saying goodbye to a very tired-looking Feuilly.

There were few words, just gestures, obviously familiar and appreciated, as fingers entwined, a kiss was exchanged and her smile spread over to his face in what seemed an almost involuntary infection.

"Will I see you next week?" he asked, and she nodded, flashing that smile again.

"Without doubt", she answered, throwing a quick glance to Courfeyrac, who hovered at some distance from them, observing the scenery as well. He nodded, as if she had asked a question.

"What about the salon on Sunday?" he continued, and Katya shrugged slightly.

"I don't know, Maurice. That's not in my hands. I'll try, though."

He nodded.

"That is good enough for me."

She took a deep breath, and for a moment, her face turned serious, blue eyes slightly darker than before.

"Take care, will you?" It was not the lighthearted statement that it could have been, and he obviously understood her meaning, answering with a simple nod before he obviously reluctantly gave her up to Courfeyrac, who led her out of the back room in a perfect gentleman's gesture. They were followed by Bahorel, who claimed loudly that they would be back in no time.

"Another sad set of fetters, is it not?"

The words, being spoken fairly close to her, made her jump slightly, although she immediately berated herself for it. The day had obviously left more of a mark than she would have admitted, but if Enjolras realized this he did not show it. His gaze instead was fixed on Feuilly, who watched Katya go before he took a rallying breath and joined Combeferre and Joly in a discussion that Éponine had neither the will nor the capability to follow.

Belatedly she realized he was expecting an answer while she had none.

"What do you mean?" she therefore asked.

"Her mother does not approve", Enjolras explained. "She is a member of nobility, and her mother does not deem a fan maker appropriate." There was a hard note around his mouth, his blue eyes fixed on the now vacated spot where the two had said good bye.

Éponine frowned but she understood what he was saying.

"And that would be different in that republic of yours."

"Ours", he contradicted immediately, without even a blink of hesitation. "And I would certainly hope so."

Éponine looked up towards him quizzically. This was a statement which was truly at odds with what she thought she had heard of Enjolras before. In fact, she had been faced with the dubious honor of listening to Marius' complaints about his friend's non-acceptance of Cosette for longer than she would have cared to. She had once even heard Enjolras complain about Marius being distracted by his feelings, and the argument had been fierce.

For a moment she wondered if it were impertinent to ask, but then she realized that politeness had never gotten her anywhere with Enjolras.

"Sounds odd coming from you, given how much you disapprove of Marius and Cosette, if you take my meaning."

His lips twitched slightly at this again, and he held her gaze for a moment, before he turned towards the room again, crossing his arms and leaning almost elegantly against the wall behind him.

"See for yourself", he advised. "I'm sure you'll understand."

Éponine followed his gaze and realized almost immediately what he meant.

Feuilly was sitting next to Combeferre and Joly, and even though his tiredness was evident in the pallor of his face, he was following the discussion between the two of them alertly, eyes darting from one to the other as he chipped in questions or comments at times.

Marius, on the other hand, had chosen a quieter spot, next to Jean Prouvaire, who was in the process of noting down something that Éponine could not discern, and glanced sorrowfully into his mug as he swirled around the liquid in it. He looked sad.

"I see", she slowly said, although she thought that Enjolras was probably being slightly unjust to Marius. Katya had seemed like an easy person to like. Cosette… well, was Cosette. But at least, she could follow Enjolras' point, and so she nodded.

Silence settled between them for a moment, while Éponine watched Marius in his sorrow. Something must have happened during the time that he had been out with Combeferre, and she longed to know what it was. And if she could help him.

Anything would be better than being haunted by the events of the day.

"I lost your knife today", she explained after a moment, not really sure why she even brought it up. She had remembered it only when she had seen Enjolras, and there was some real remorse, both at the item, which had been of quite some value, and of the way, how their banter about giving back or not the weapon had suddenly turned so serious. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"I hope", he answered coolly, "it made a good price."

For a moment, Éponine stared at him in exasperation, but he flashed her a quick glance, and she was utterly surprised at the fact, that one might have almost thought that Enjolras had just made a joke.

She decided to laugh. He did not follow, but he did not chastise her for it either, and that was enough for this moment.

It would be good to think about this comment when she thought about the knife. And not on how exactly she had lost it.

"Is the reason for you having to leave what I think it is?" Enjolras asked suddenly. He was not looking at her, but something told her that she had his undivided attention none the less.

Eponine took a rallying sip from her mug. She had somewhat expected this conversation, but now that it was there, it found her still with not much to say.

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asked in slight exasperation.

"I do not ask questions without intent, Éponine", his reply came, slightly tense but without hesitation. He had not moved, and still they were unobserved for the moment, as all of the group were occupied with their own tasks and they were left to this conversation of hers.

"So what is it you think?" Éponine threw his question back at him, and a slight huff of breath coming from him made her glance towards Enjolras from the corner of an eye. He was slightly shaking his head, but he dignified her with a response none the less.

"I assume that this night will see you going to La Force to help these associates of yours."

For a moment Éponine considered lying, but then she decided against it. At least, the group of students was some sort of protection. They would probably not approve of her intention, but she did not think they would go as far as hold her back.

Therefore she nodded.

"You are in their debt, I assume", he continued, neutrally. "Caged, of sorts."

"How would you say it? In fetters?" Éponine gave back in the same tone, mimicking his gesture of watching the group of young men discuss and argue before them. It was a strange view, as if seen through a window. "Actually", she continued, "that is not true. It is simple human decency. Nothing more."

That made him turn his head towards her, and she realized again that he was capable of a very disquieting kind of magnetism. She understood why he was able to make all those friends of his follow him.

If they were even his friends, and not his disciples.

Currently, however, he was not intent on conviction. There was a slight, challenging curiosity in his blue eyes.

"Why so?" he asked.

Éponine took some time to ponder her answer before she gave it. Again, she opted for honesty. Lying to him might be worth a try, but he knew and had seen too much. It was, from the way he asked, quite possible that he already knew the whole story and was only asking for the sake of the question.

Or for the sake of judging her reaction, Éponine all of a sudden realized.

With Enjolras, it was a trial, every step of the way. She felt continuously on probation, as if he were judging and estimating her every reaction drawing his own conclusions from that.

It was hard to think that they were favorable ones, but he had not chased her away yet – no, indeed, she had been invited, and so she must have done something appropriate in his eyes.

Whatever that might have been.

She felt slight anger and being manipulated thus and refused to fall into the trap he had set her.

She would not have Marius know who she really was, but it was rather too late for that when it came to Enjolras. He had not betrayed her before. It was likely he would continue to be silent.

"Because I was there with them. It's not just that they are in prison and I'm not. I'm the one who's free. So I'm the one who has to bail them out. Wouldn't you do the same for your friends?"

He pondered this for a moment.

"That depends on what they did", he finally responded, his voice carrying a ring of honesty, as his gaze went back to the assembled group, slightly glazing over as he was pondering his own thoughts.

Éponine, having seen how close they were, had trouble believing it.

"Really?" she asked, dosing her voice with a healthy measure of sarcasm.

"Well", he replied. "If they were involved in deeds I consider despicable, they would not be my friends." There was a hard note to his voice.

"That's too easy." The words were out before she could stop them and his head whipped around as he glared at her, blue eyes blazing, but she had expected it and seen it coming. "There is no such thing as black and white. If they're your friends, they're your friends. You don't judge them on a single deed, do you? If they did a lot of good, and then one bad thing?"

"That depends on the deed", he reiterated with cool calm, but Éponine crossed her arms before her and glared at him defiantly.

"What about me?" For a moment, he hesitated, and she pressed on. "I've done the same they did. Still you invited me."

"Yes", Enjolras answered, with slight exasperation. "But you did save Madame de Cambout in the process."

"That was coincidence", Éponine replied. "We were all there, Enjolras. We were intending to rob them."

He held her gaze.

"Why?"

"Because that's the way which we have to bring food on the table and a roof over our head."

Enjolras took a deep breath, and Éponine saw his fingers clenching around his arms.

"And that is the worst of the fetters. People being driven to these deeds by circumstance." He took a deep breath, and something in his face softened slightly. "Indeed, the question that is forgotten in what passes for a legal system these days is the intent behind a deed. A soldier who kills in battle does not carry the same guilt as an assassin does when he murders with a knife. The thief who steals out of hunger and necessity does not carry the same guilt as the man who robs to heighten his riches. We cannot continue to see only the deed and not the motivation."

Éponine blinked in surprise. She certainly had not heard that concept before, coming from someone like him. Again he was saying things that she had not expected, and again it caught her off her guard.

"That's… something for your new republic as well, I guess", she managed, and he responded with the twitch of his lips that she actually thought might be his idea of a smile.

"Very much so", he replied, and she recognized the tone, the deep conviction that he used in his speeches and that had all the alluring qualities of a magic spell. For what felt the hundredth time she wondered if he knew how dangerous that tone of voice was.

She forced herself back to the practical.

"That means you're not going to stop me?"

He sighed.

"Éponine. I have no inclination to stop you from doing something you are determined to carry out. My preferences on your actions do not factor into this equation. If you are determined, and you feel what you are doing is just and true, you should do it. I was merely questioning your motivation. You have answered." He unfolded his arms to shove his hands into the pockets of his trousers. It was a casual gesture that seemed off-character with respect to his usual behavior and transformed his posture. "Your decisions are your own Éponine. This is a universal truth you should not forget."

Little did he know. Little did this bourgeois boy, for all his talk of a new republic, know of the web her father had entangled her in. Little did he know of Patron-Minette, of letters whispering lies into the ears of the wealthy, of silent steps in the night. Little did he know of the guilt and former affection that bound her to Montparnasse, and of all the small promises and favors that held together her world.

He was bourgeois. He would not understand.

And yet the picture he painted was a beautiful dream.

"When you go to La Force", Enjolras continued, all of a sudden, and she would have almost flinched in surprise, "there are a few things you should consider."

She turned towards him, but he was gazing into the room again as he continued to speak.

"After being brought to the prison, the first day usually sees an interrogation of the subject to determine their manner of stay. For those who are likely to stay in prison longer than just a few days, this usually implies a change in location from the interrogation cells into a more permanent lodging to free the interrogation cells for the next day. As a result, these associates of yours would now be found in the New Building on the third floor I presume. You would do well to factor this into your planning."

Éponine could not help but stare the man standing nonchalantly at her side.

"What?" slipped past her lips before she could help it, and he turned around with a slight frown.

"Yes?"

She shook her head.

"How do you know?"

"You may be aware", Enjolras said calmly, "that I am a student of the law and in possession of a letter granting me access to La Force to some extent."

"Yes I know", Éponine answered impatiently. "But…"

"Your associates, Éponine, are guilty of theft. There is no doubt when it comes to this. This would, on first glance, convince me that their stay in prison is a justified one. However, our visit yesterday, as well as the overall setup, have given me the fear, that the crime that is being placed on them is one that they indeed did not commit. From you as well as from Madame de Cambout I have had the real account on the death of Monsieur de Cambout, and I am inclined to believe your associates had no hand in it. None the less, as far as I can judge, there are forces which try to attach that particular deed to your friends. That, on the other hand, is not justified." He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"I assume this is done for reasons of stealth. Hence, by removing the culprits from the hands of our opponents, I am making a move to inhibit their plans."

"Nice words", Éponine commented.

"This is not about words." Now, again, there was an edge to Enjolras' voice. "And make no mistake. I do not like this. I do not like this in the slightest bit. But for one, I cannot and will not stop you. Yet we have decided to trust one another, and I am true to my word. And for the second, I am certain I am standing against the greater injustice."

He pressed his lips together and looking at his arms Éponine realized that his hands were probably fisted in his pockets. Yet, something within her appreciated his gesture. He had taken a leap for her, however many other explanations he was giving for it.

She fumbled with the response for a moment.

"Thank you", she finally said.

His arms slightly relaxed and he nodded, as if to himself.

"I am expecting you in Rue Pascal when this deed is done, Éponine." His voice was not particularly strong, but the absolute nature of this statement was not to be missed. "If you have not appeared at daybreak, we will make inquiries."

Her first reflex was to protest, but his posture was so determined, his gaze so clear that she decided against it.

A place of safety, wherever it came from, was not easily denied.

Éponine left around midnight, the aftereffects of the opium having waned until she seemed to be quite her usual self now.

Courfeyrac did not like to see her leaving, especially after what had happened earlier today, but both her determined stance and a slightly surprising comment from Enjolras put him off the matter for the moment. She was as easy – or rather as difficult – to direct as her brother.

With slight worry, Courfeyrac realized that he had seen neither head nor hair of Gavroche today. He had been around town, first at the Necker, then at the home of the Woronieckis, where he had collected Katya with all the charm and dash that was befitting for the suitor of a noble lady – the game of make-believe was sometimes annoying, but he followed through for the sake of Feuilly – and finally to the Barrière du Maine with Grantaire, but during all of these walks, Gavroche had failed to turn up.

Although he was fairly certain that the boy knew the streets, their dangers and safer corners better than any of them, it was a disquieting thought. However, he had found no way of asking Éponine without alerting her to the fact that he knew of her connection to the boy, and hence he was left to ponder in worry.

The Musain had become much quieter.

Bossuet and Joly had left already, taking Feuilly with them who seemed tired enough to fall asleep standing; and by the way Jehan was rubbing over his eyes as he was writing he saw the same exhaustion in the poet's posture.

Combeferre was not much better, although he was bearing it more gracefully, but the fact alone that a question posed by Enjolras had to be repeated three times before he registered it was a telltale sign enough.

They were certainly all on their last legs. Marius and Courfeyrac had gotten comparatively much sleep, but it seemed as if their friends had not been quite as lucky in that respect.

He was about to suggest to retire for the night, when again steps from the entrance of the back room alerted his attention. The speed of the approaching sound did not bode well, and all of them tensed at it, each in his own way.

Courfeyrac, for his part, slipped his hand into his jacket that was hanging over a chair next to him to retrieve a pistol, but at the sight of a disheveled Pierre Berat entering the back room he replaced it without having even been fully drawn.

The xylographist was gasping for breath after obviously hurrying for a distance, and sweat plastered his locks to his forehead and his chemise to his arms. Courfeyrac wondered if he had run all the way from Boulevard des Italiens.

Enjolras reacted first.

"Berat!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

The xylographist took only a moment to rally himself.

"It's Madame", he replied. "They… they have arrested Madame."

However tired Combeferre might have been before, this roused him immediately. His shocked exclamation of "What?" made Courfeyrac turn towards him, and he realized that his friend's face was almost white, drained of all blood as he stared at the xylographist. He had gotten up and was leaning on the table, knuckles white. "Come… again?"

Berat gulped for air.

"The police has just arrested Madame de Cambout", he brought out slightly more coherently. "Directly out of the headquarters. They are taking her to prison as we speak."

Courfeyrac shook his head.

"I knew that article was a mistake", he could not help saying. "Bold and admirable, but a mistake", but Berat cut him off with a violent shake of his head.

"No, it's not that. They haven't arrested her for that. She's arrested for murder, Monsieur Courfeyrac. For murder of her husband."

A toppling sound made him turn to Combeferre again who had dropped back onto the chair he had been sitting on and was just hiding his face in his hands.

"Oh no", he whispered, and then, even more quietly, "God; no…"

Courfeyrac would have heartily supported his words and felt acutely the dismay of his friend. Torn between questioning Berat and lending some support to Combeferre, he was interrupted by the xylographist, who, leaning against one of the pillars as he caught his breath, continued to speak.

"And that's not all", he said. "When they came, there was chaos in the headquarters. They were searching…"

He took a deep breath, facing Enjolras directly, before he continued.

"The drawings and the xylographs. I couldn't find them when they had left. I'm afraid our pictures of the assassins are gone."