A/N: I'm sorry I took so long for this. I was abysmally busy. On another (bad news) note, I'll be on vacation for the next two and a half weeks, I'll see how I manage writing during that time. I'm not sure yet.

But before this - the next chapter. The women of poise and character are of course the lovely and headstrong ladies of Musichetta, Cosette and Hélène.

For those who want to read more on my (slightly weird) rendering of Musichetta, I recommend the "Ma tendre Musette" story which can be found under my stories and which is a vignette giving a bit more background on her (although it is not necessary to read it to follow this fic)

Thanks to all the lovely comments. Keep it up :-)

Chapter 48: Women of poise and character

"We're sorry. We thought you were dead."
"I was. I'm better now."

He would not have expected her to be waiting for him. In fact, as far as he could think this was a first time occurrence and it took him by surprise.

Musichetta did not wait for others. Others waited for her. It was part of her charm, part of her game, maybe even, and he had come to accept it as he accepted so many things about her. Although, in all honesty, he was rarely sure why.

Musichetta, for all her cheer, and laughs, and smiles, was a woman of secrets. A half world creature only too versed in the ways of deceit and make-believe.

For a long time, Joly had seen her through his own eyes, and she had been a dream fulfilled in her own right, a girl of sparks and fire, of laughter, lightheartedness and spirit.

It was only later that he had learned that Musichetta had made it an art to be whatever she was supposed to be. The woman behind this veil was a completely different matter.

Since then, Joly had started to strive to call forth those little gazes behind the wall that was her usual play and smiles, and at times she had rewarded him with a figment of honesty.

In that, at least, probably apart from Bossuet, he was unique for her, he knew.

In that manner at least, if he could not be the only man for her.

Her waiting for them was another moment of these kinds. When she turned towards the opening of the door, Joly was almost sure that the relief in her eyes was genuine. She had worried for him, and this rekindled the hope that he constantly carried. Maybe, these fragments of honesty were, in their own way, something that set him apart from the many others that walked at her side.

"Patrice… ", she greeted him as he opened the door. Her tones almost dipped down to an alto now, vibrating and rich, a notion of dramattico, her voice honest for once.

This was another revelation of the surprising kind. So much master of her voice was Musichetta, that she bent it to her will with ease, while sometimes, her gaze could not fully hide the truth that was behind it. Yet, in that quick moment, Joly was certain that all he saw and heard and felt was her.

Bossuet stepped through the door behind him, and he saw another of those flashes, just as briefly, but this one did not hurt, because he could share her affection with a man that was almost his brother more easily than with the strangers that she usually wrapped around her fingers with practiced ease.

"Alain…", she greeted Bossuet as well and fully turned towards the two of them, her hands hiding in the folds of her elaborate skirt. "I have heard dreadful things…"

Her words brought back memories of the previous day, spark and flame, fire and blood, and for a moment Joly seemed to smell the smoke, the blood and dust, but then there was Bossuet's hand on his shoulder and he took a deep, calming breath.

They had woken to another day. That was something to be thankful for.

"Most of them are true, I am afraid", he answered none the less, and Musichetta nodded, her hidden hands clenching into her skirts. "Someone placed an infernal machine in the Corinthe, where we were having a meeting, and the building collapsed as a result."

Musichetta nodded, pressing her lips together, her eyes darting between the two friends for a moment. Joly was painfully aware of the stench that was still clinging to his clothes – he had refused to borrow some of Jehan's more extravagant ones and rather opted to walk back to his own apartment to change, and this was what had brought them here.

Bossuet was cleaner, having spent the evening with what remained of the Picpus cell instead, and less wounded in a number of ways, but still, he had immediately volunteered to join Joly on his errand. And Joly was only too grateful for it. His friend's cheer was invaluable.

"I wasn't even there", Bossuet intercepted the moment of silence in an attempt at levity. "Can you believe it? The one time for my luck to turn…"

"We're all glad for it", Joly answered, turning around to his friend briefly to place a hand on his shoulder. He would not even want to imagine what would have happened, had he lost him in the ruin of the Corinthe as well.

"Yes, we are." Finally, Musichetta moved and stepped towards them, enfolding first the one, then the other into a warm hug. She smelled of roses and the very special fragrance that was her, a clean, clear smell that cut through the memories of dust and flame. Joly held her close, buried his head in her neck for a moment of solace, one moment only, before the wheels would start to turn again.

"My brave Patrice", she whispered, close to him, and for a moment her hand was in his hair and he would almost believe the affection that was mirrored in her tone.

But Musichetta was the mistress of lies. And her voice was her instrument of deceit.

If he did not see her eyes, he would never know how true she was.

Some time later, the three of them had stepped up from the entry of the tenement to his apartment. Joly, already washed, sifted through his wardrobe looking for new clothes to account for the damp, hot weather that the humid morning had already promised. Bossuet was standing at the washing stand, splashing water into face and hair while Musichetta sat at the table. She was watching them silently, fingers folded before her in a gesture of false calm.

"How did you hear about it?" Joly asked as he took a new waistcoat and placed it on the table to join the chemise that was already lying there. Musichetta hesitated for a moment.

"I was out", she began, and then, after a moment, "with a friend."

Joly nodded mutely and turned around to the cupboard again. This was not news to him. Musichetta had many friends, as he had found out in painful fragments and pieces. She was a glittering star too bright for just one of them. And more than that. She was a viper, taking without remorse what she could get, money, jewels, fame, whatever she was able to get her hands on.

If he had any sense he would have ended this game a long time ago. He had tried, when he had found out exactly what sort of woman had captured his heart.

But there were these moments of honesty.

And they made him walk back in an instant.

But so the whole story was clear. Today was Friday, and Musichetta scheduled her outings well. So yesterday, Thursday, it would have been an officer of the National Guard who took her out for the evening.

"Monsieur…."

"Naquin", Musichetta answered, her statement half a sigh. Joly nodded. He had only seen him once, and from afar. A man old enough to be Musichetta's father, lithe and silver-haired, with the style and confidence of military service in a number of regimes.

He carefully schooled his face into a neutral expression as he turned around again, placing the rest of his new attire onto the table. He would love to have a bath, but that would have to wait for better times, he thought.

"And he knew what had happened at the Corinthe?"

"He was informed while we were at "le chat qui peche"", Musichetta explained, slightly uneasily. "And then he left right away. I was not sure at first, but I knew you meet at the Corinthe from time to time so I feared for you when I heard. I started asking around afterwards, and found that it had indeed been you there… I looked for him again then and found him with his men, on the way back home. He told me it had indeed been a group of students…. and when I found your apartment deserted I feared for the worst."

"We told you that we were teaming up in friends' apartments to be safer against cloak-and-dagger-attacks." Bossuet was in the middle of shaving and hardly moving his mouth as he spoke. His words were slurred as a result and Musichetta frowned slightly.

"I had forgotten", she said after a moment. "In that moment, I had forgotten." There was something forlorn in her voice and – more importantly – also in her eyes. Joly, despite himself, stepped towards her again to place a hand on her shoulder. "Nothing happened to us. To us two at least."

She frowned.

"But to others?"

Joly closed his eyes to shun the pictures again. The dreadful moment when Ramon had stopped breathing under Combeferre's and his working hands. The sudden silence when Bahorel had carried Grantaire out of the ruin that had been the Corinthe.

He nodded mutely, his hands clenching around the back rest of one of his chairs, as he shoved aside the images of the night before.

The rustling of lace told him that Musichetta had gotten up, and when he opened his eyes again he saw that she was stepping towards him, carefully removing her gloves to reveal pale, long fingers.

"I'm so sorry Patrice", she said, her voice in the deep ranges again, carrying a sadness that made it almost impossible to fight back the tears he had already shed the evening before, but there seemed to be more, always more. He tried to look into her eyes to see if she was genuine, but the image was swimming already, and all he saw was shapes and movements and then he was enfolded by the smell of roses again.

"Cry, if you must", he heard her whispering into his ear as he buried himself in her, in the smell of roses and the illusion of real affection. These days were too fragile to protect him from this as well.

Her hand was running soothing circles on his back and he felt the relief that tears brought, again, and he leaned into the strength that was Musichetta and tried not to think of yesterday or tomorrow.

"She has been put to work?" There was an edge to Marc Lamarin's voice that Combeferre had never heard there before, and he had to admit that at this moment the boy seemed older, taking obviously a leaf out of Enjolras' book as he glared at the guard before them. He was not much older than Lamarin himself, which accounted for somewhat equal ground between the two

The man was indeed visibly uncomfortable, and if Combeferre had not taken off his hat upon entering the building, he would have felt the need to tip it towards his young companion.

He had been very concerned about the haphazard team that they had put together to contemplate the many possibilities of helping Madame de Cambout, but in this moment, Combeferre considered that Marc Lamarin might not have been such a bad choice after all.

"On her own request", the guard replied defensively. He had led them into an interrogation chamber, which also served as visitor's chamber, while they were waiting for another man to get Hélène. "You are aware that all of the prisoners are given the choice to work in the manufacturing shop. We are forcing none of them, but it is an opportunity to pass time and earn some money."

Lamarin stared at him incredulously.

"And you would think Madame was in need of that kind of money? Do you even have an idea who she is?"

The guard shuffled somewhat uncomfortably.

"Not the money, perhaps, Monsieur", he answered. "But maybe the distraction."

Lamarin nodded, losing a bit of momentum.

"I see. I take it this prison sets apart those not yet convicted from the true criminals?"

The question on what a true criminal was, was a philosophical one, Combeferre mused absentmindedly, but he held back, letting Lamarin run this part of the discussion. The young man was showing persistence at least, and it seemed as if he was observing well and learning quickly.

"Of course", the guard replied with a certain measure of indignation. "This is Paris."

Lamarin nodded and took a step back to signal that he would finish his questioning for now. Instead, he stepped up to Combeferre's side, giving the older man a measuring gaze, but Combeferre felt infinitely better than the day before and gave little reason for concern.

Thus, they waited in silence until the door at the other end of the room opened to admit Hélène.

Seeing her was like a strong beat directly into the solarplexus, a sight that went straight to his heart, his mind scrambling for purchase in the sea of worry. She was pale, skin almost waxen, lips near white, and her eyes were bloodshot, confirming that this night probably had not been longer than her last one. Her coiffure was delicately arranged and at odds with her overall appearance, and he recognized it for what it was – her attempt at normality amidst all this chaos.

Her eyes lit up when she recognized him and she took a snap breath, for a moment freezing in her motion.

"Jean…", she whispered in an uncharacteristic lapse of poise, the first hints of a wavering smile breaking out on her haggard features like a ray of light. But she fought for composure and managed, her eyes flittering briefly to the Guard in the corner.

"Madame de Cambout." He tried to give a calming note to his voice, to take the edge off the situation and to lend her a helping hand in composing herself. It worked. She nodded and added a more careful "Monsieur" to the slightly less appropriate greeting.

Combeferre offered her to sit and followed suit, while Lamarin started a conversation with the Guard again, their words a background sound to their discussion.

"Are you all right?" Combeferre began, and she nodded, immediately paling some more, and he saw her swallowing convulsively.

"To… tolerably", she answered, swallowing again in the middle of the word, blinking slightly more quickly as she brought her rebelling body under control again. "But… I should be asking you, Monsieur, should I not? I have heard the most dreadful things of what happened last night. The rumors that were running in these walls…" She passed her hand over her face again, fingers trembling subtly as she fought for composure.

It was a painful thing to watch.

"Madame." He attempted for a soothing tone to reach her, contemplating for a moment if he should touch her, but decided against it. The Guard was watching still, and worse, he was not sure that he wanted to give a spark to this particular powder keg. She was too fragile, too shaken for this.

And, in all honesty, so was he.

Slowly she lifted her gaze again and he smiled, almost involuntarily.

"I am unhurt", he confirmed softly and she nodded without saying a word. At least she took her hands down, folding them in front of her again, and her gaze gained in force as she found her composure again.

"I am relieved."

"I have brought you a few things", he continued, already fishing for the satchel that he had placed next to the table, and Hélène frowned slightly.

"Have you seen my father?" she asked, and Combeferre shook his head.

"Not today", he contradicted, placing the satchel on his lap and opening the fastenings that gave way with a loud clicking. "I may pass by at your parents' home later though. Do you want me to pass a message?"

She considered this for a moment, then shook her head.

"No… not for now. I think he may still contact me as well… on the case of my defense, I guess." She pressed her lips together, fingers playing along each other nervously. "However that may end." The dejected note in her voice was not something he had heard from her often, and it was painful to listen to. And so, Combeferre strove for distraction.

"Well, of course", he said, dismissively, and changed the subject quickly.

"Here", he began, placing a small linen sack filled with the first strawberries of the season, fresh from the market. "I thought you could use something else than the food they serve here." For a moment, a hint of life came back to her eyes, a minuscule smile valiantly fighting against the pain and worry, but it was not enough and her expression became dead again. She took the linen sack, though, fingers closing around it almost tenderly.

"Also, we have been lucky and some of the products of the orangery have been for sale at the market", he continued, fishing for three lemons in the satchel and placing them on the table. "It does not work for everyone, but there have been studies that the smell helps against the morning illness, so I think it is worth a try at least. Also, you should try to eat in small portions during the day, if you can, and so I have brought you a bread as well for this purpose."

He was attempting at a professional attitude, falling back into reflexes acquired during his internship at the Necker, and it gave him some measure of calm as he treaded familiar ground.

Hélène took what he gave her reflexively, placing the lemons with the strawberries and the sack on top of the bread, thanking quietly and politely.

"I hope this will help you feel a bit better", he answered, and she nodded, again in an almost automatic movement.

"I'm sure it will", she lied. "You… should not have bothered."

Combeferre shook his head softly.

"Surely, Madame, you know that this is impossible for me when it comes to you."

She hesitated for a moment, evading his gaze, and when she continued, she attempted for neutrality, but her voice was slightly less sure.

"That's not what I mean", she continued. "With all that happened… your friends probably need you more."

"In fact, Madame, as you mention it, there is something that I might need your help on."

Hélène offered a wry, bitter smile.

"There is not much that I can do in my current state, as you well know Monsieur."

Combeferre, having expected that response, shook his head.

"But you can still read, Madame, can you not?"

This attracted her attention at least, and she looked at him again, a slight frown on her face. And yet, deep within her eyes there was a spark, some remnant of life, of interest. He had hoped for this reaction. Had hoped to know her well enough.

"Read what?" she asked, and he fished something from his satchel again, a stack of handwritten paper, toiled over during the night past, half rambling and half tale, and he placed it in front of her.

"I have written an article to summarize what has happened during the last days. While before our opponents have acted in the dark, the Corinthe was so public an incident that I suspect a public response would be in order. And along those same lines I figured that if we were to start down that road, we might as well go the whole path, and summarize all that has happened and all that we know. I… would like to have a second opinion though. I have a fear it has become a trifle… intense."

Hélène's brow rose, and he could have almost wept at this show of life and spirit, this familiar gesture of irony.

"Intense?" she asked drily. "You?"

"In that case I am afraid yes. I do have a suspicion that I got carried away at some point. A second opinion would be appreciated."

Her gaze lying on him was suspicious, and for a moment Combeferre thought she would only see part of his offer – the part where he wanted to provide distraction and purpose to her again – and overlook the real plea for help that was underlying the request, but then, probably, her curiosity won over. She took the papers and placed them in front of her, starting to read. Chin placed on folded fingers, eyes slightly narrowed she found her concentration almost immediately, and the posture was so incredibly familiar, so incredibly normal that it almost took his breath away.

She finished the first page and turned, her frown deepening with every line she read, lips mouthing the words silently. He found his thoughts and expressions mirrored on her face, as she took in the text with utmost intensity.

He had never known someone who read with so much agitation as Hélène did.

It did not take long until she raised her head, looking at him with a deepening expression of displeasure.

"I need a pen", she said, and he produced quill and ink in a heartbeat.

It was not, as if she had surprised him.

His words were drowning in a sea of darkness.

The analogy was somber, if exaggerating, but he could not fight the thought as he watched Hélène attack his text as she would an invisible foe, quill flying over the paper in practiced movements, putting her words to his, crossing out whole passages and rearranging argumentations with a sure hand.

She was an unmerciful editor. And she was fully within her element.

The sight was glorious.

"Have you even given this another read after you wrote it?" Hélène shook her head, scolding. "Here. This passage. It works as an introduction of this line of arguments, I will give you that, but it picks up a tread that you had about here." She went two pages back, tipping with the back of the quill onto a paragraph on the bottom of that page. "Either you put the two of them together in either place, or you make a reference from one to the other."

Combeferre slipped closer and peered over her shoulder, reading through the passages that she meant and felt that he had to agree.

"Possibly it would not break the line of argumentation if we take it out in the first section. Repetition does help to hammer a point in, but I think in this case it might rather lead to boredom, so I'd rather not bring it back a second time. And I'm rather fond of it as an opening statement to the history digression."

"I can see that", Hélène replied drily, "and I will have to admit that it is indeed fully within your style. This area however…" she marked a passage by a waving line next to the writing with bold hand, "does not sound like you at all. If I wouldn't know it better, I'd call it rambling, but given circumstances I will settle for intense indeed."

"It was a…", he was fumbling for words and settled for a cautious, slightly self-conscious smile in the end. "… probably a lapse of reason."

Hélène raised her brow and crossed out the whole passage, leaving only a single sentence somewhere in the middle, circling it and indicating with an arrow a different place that this phrase should be placed.

"Fresh anger and pain is probably not the best of advisors in writing an article", she commented wrily and raised her gaze for a moment. Something blinked in her eyes, almost a flash of irony. "Sometimes one does well to remember this."

Combeferre could not help but utter a small laugh. The subtext of her words was heavy, and he would have almost gotten the impression that she was able to find some sort of amusement at her own folly by watching his. This was what he had barely dared to hope for, but it seemed as if he had guessed correctly.

Hélène was slowly stepping towards the living again.

The relief was almost overwhelming.

"One does indeed", he commented, trying to keep all that he felt out of his voice and failing. He could not hear it, but see it in her eyes that his voice must have conveyed a fragment of his emotions without his will.

Hélène sighed and ran a hand through her dark, orderly curls, turning back to the script at hand.

"That is what an editor is for, I guess."

Combeferre hesitated for a moment, but then he decided to take the leap none the less, and he lowered his voice to make sure that he was not overheard by the guard, who still found himself being questioned by Lamarin.

"That is what a friend is for, Madame."

Hélène slowly lowered the pen and looked up to him, measuring him with her gaze for a moment, expression almost unreadable. And when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost tender.

"I suppose", she answered, "but the best friend is in vain if his advice is not heeded."

An apology. Of sorts. And he added his own.

"I am sorry I was not there, Madame."

Hélène shook her head.

"There is no reason for you to be sorry, Monsieur. I did not come to you, as I probably should have. Maybe I was blind, or pained, or silly. It does not matter. What remains is that I behaved in a foolish way, when I should have turned to my friends. For that, and for the damage I have done, I am sorry."

He wondered if he should place a hand on hers, to give some reassurance, but a look into her eyes made him realize that she was not unsettled or pained at all. Quite to the contrary. In her eyes, he saw a spark returning that had been her very own brand of bravery, and that had been one of the traits that had drawn him to her time and again, like a moth to the flame, to feel the warmth and finally burn.

For the first time since the death of her husband, she seemed remotely like her usual self.

"But what is done is done, and the question is on how we continue. I agree with you, Monsieur. They have gone too far, and we are too late for chaste games of wordsmithy and riddles. They laid their intentions clear, and so we must be clear as well. They want a war with Le Globe? They can have it." Her hands curled into fists and her stance was determined once more. "If this is the moment where we clearly declare allegiances, then so be it."

She was marvelous. Angry, proud, determined, and for a moment he was utterly at loss for words. The moment was akin to the last deep breath before the plunge, and it had the feel of a point of no return being passed.

Once they had released his writing into the world, there was no retracing their steps.

For either of them.

But her determination was contagious, and for a moment Combeferre wished he had brought Enjolras just to witness this moment, to share it in the way they had shared all their points of enthusiasm. There was a notion of their leader about Hélène when the mood took her, and like with Enjolras, Hélène's determination chased out all his thoughts of how and why and maybe.

For good or ill, there was a future to be won.

"Then so be it", he answered, and she nodded firmly, a smile slowly spreading on her features.

"Go to Le Globe, Monsieur, and talk to the others. Tell them what we have spoken about, tell them what we are planning. They must know and be on our side on this. It may take some convincing, but I have no doubt in your abilities on that score. Rely on Enfantin if you must, he's most likely to be on your side."

She gave him back his article, edited, half torn apart, and yet – he doubted it not – much improved to what it had been before.

"This needs to be the title of tomorrow. We need to be quick if it still needs to be set. Don't go to my father first – this is more important."

And now, Combeferre could not help the full smile that crept on his face at this utter scene of normality. Hélène had always been the cornerstone of Le Globe, undisputed in her authority despite her husband's official role.

"Heaven help me", he said, somewhat torn between despair and relief. "It's good to see you back."

Helene chuckled slightly and cleaned the pen with practiced movements. The smile she shot him was almost mischievous.

"It's good to be back, Monsieur", she answered. "It's good to be back."

When the pale sunrise, that Cosette had watched creeping up her window had fully chased away the pale, greenish light of the early morning, she finally gave up on sleeping and got up.

Night had given no rest to her, and she had weighed all that had happened, the dreams and strange notions that plagued her during the day, the fruitless discussions with her father, the callous conversation with Marius.

As the hours ticked by, she had contemplated what was happening to her, had tried to sort fancies from realities, and had only partly succeeded in this.

And yet, as the light returned, she at least had found a couple of conclusions; logic and emotion entwined in one, and she had a path before her eyes.

She remembered little of her time before Picpus, and the more she thought on it, the more she realized she had probably been all the more happy for it.

However, whatever had called forth this change now, memories long buried were returning day and night, plaguing her with their painful intensity, and Cosette was forced to conclude that her time before the calm of the convent had probably been less than fortunate.

Mercilessly following this thought to the next step, and analyzing her experience of the past days, her hopes of being able to chase away these memories and fears by sheer force of will were probably slim, and so Cosette had to resort to other modes of action.

She had tried to talk to her father, but he seemed to be caught so deeply in his own worries and fears that this had not brought her forward. She had tried to talk to Marius, but he had neither listened nor understood, governed by his own thoughts as well.

She did not fault either of them for it – these times were not easy on any of them – but Cosette found that she lacked not the strength for compassion, but the strength for endurance. And so, to protect herself, she decided to take action in her own right.

It was an old reflex, almost forgotten, and the voice of a child speaking to her in words both patronizing and contemptuous. "If you just wait for someone to rescue you that will never happen, lark that you are. You're weak, so you're on the bottom of things. As simple as that."

The half-memory brought a wash of anger and helplessness, but also, surprisingly, a strong, overwhelming notion of "no more".

Cosette shook her head to chase the ghost of a brown-haired child away. She would not be the victim any more.

Which meant, that she needed to clarify a number of things.

She sat down at the writing table and took a pen and a sheet of paper and, in the first light of a damp, humid morning, began to write a letter to a woman she had not spoken to in years.