"Enjolras!" A chorus of voices sang out at once.
A host of faces turned to greet them as they entered. A few moments later, Enjolras had been rushed by two or three of his friends and they were already twittering their questions and dragging him deeper into the Café.
Grace was left standing in the doorway, at a bit of a loss for what to do with herself. She listened closely to the chatter of the men about her, trying to put faces to the names.
"There's been a cholera outbreak in the Saint Michel district." Said a tall, brown-curled man wearing a set of round spectacles. "Nasty stuff. I attended a few deaths today."
That must be Combeffere. The doctor. Grace thought.
"And on the Rue de Bac, there have been hunger riots." Chimed in a second Gentlemen. "Smashing up the bakery windows and stealing all they can! Order is in shambles. The National Guard are rumoured to be moving in…"
Courfeyrac maybe? Grace thought, eyeing up his warm, amber eyes
"Shame I missed out on all the fun!" a gruff and hairy-armed man chimed in. He laughed raucously and rolled up his sleeves further, revealing a set of meaty biceps. "I would have loved to have taken a swing at a Lieutenant or two! Right in the head!"
Bahorel. Definitely. She surmised, suppressing a smile.
"Oh, don't mention heads, Bahorel." Another of the men bemoaned. "I've had a killer headache all afternoon…" he added, rubbing his temples.
Joly, the hypochondriac. Grace thought.
"Me too." Announced a scruffy-looking and booze-scented man. He embraced Joly in an armlock, a bottle of something in one hand. "But mine's because of last night's brandy!"
Grace smirked as she ticked off one more in her mind. Grantaire.
"You're always hung-over." The last of the small crowd grumbled. "And then you always come begging us for more money for drink…just like my father used to."
Feuilly, the fan-maker's son.
It struck her just how young they all looked. For a group of underground revolutionaries, she'd expected grizzled and weather-beaten frondeurs. But every face she saw in that cafe couldn't have been older than twenty-two. Twenty-three, perhaps at their oldest. They were so like the Undergraduates she'd often seen milling about in the colleges and outside the lecture-halls in Oxford.
"And when are you going to tell us who the fresh meat is, Enjolras?" Grantaire suddenly asked, pointing his bottle straight in to Grace's face.
The rest of the chatter and prattle died all around them. Suddenly Grace felt the eyes of all of the young men on her , observing her intently, just like she'd been observing them a moment ago.
"This is my cousin, Romily Degas." Enjolras replied, striding to Grace's side and laying a hand on her shoulder. "He's been staying with my mother and father in Provins. Family accident. Nasty business."
"And you bought your family's poor little stray back with you?" Grantaire added, raising a thick, black eyebrow at Grace.
"Grantaire, don't be so rude!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, swatting him on the arm. He strode forward and extended a palm out to Grace. "Welcome to Paris, brother."
Grace shook it, trying to match Courfeyrac's grip in strength. She had to have a man's handshake, after all. She gave him a weak smile and nodded her thanks at him.
"And you're here to join our cause too, Degas?" Feuilly asked curiously.
"That's right." Grace replied, trying to dip her voice as low as possible too. "Enjolras is a…compelling speaker."
"That he is! Our pretty-boy patriarch!" Bahorel laughed raucously. "Pity he can't throw a punch as well as he can deliver a speech!"
"Bahorel, I'm sick of tending to your broken knuckles. You'd do well to learn a thing or two about mind over matter…" Combeferre groaned, rubbing at the skin of his nose underneath his glasses.
"Revolutions aren't achieved through words alone. Do you think the King will be encouraged to give up his throne by 'nicely talking things through', Combeferre?" Feuilly said reproachfully. "Just ask the Catalonians; The Spanish King wasn't so keen to listen to them. Or the Pugachev Uprising; remember what Catherine did to them?"
"Or the English." Grace piped up, eager to make her place in-between these men. They all turned to her expectantly and waited for her to continue. "Well, we beheaded the King, didn't we. In the Civil War… But old Olly Cromwell's lot didn't last very long, did they?"
Courfeyrac gave out a small laugh. "I like this one." he said to Enjolras. "He can stay."
"English, then, are you?" Combeferre asked curiously.
"That's right. Oxford." Grace responded, trying to sound confident.
"Mmm. I suppose we can't hold that against you now you're one of us." Combeferre said with a playful wink.
"Oh, how nice of you." Grace responded, equally playfully. "Just goes to show what we were told about you lot back home in England."
"And what was that?" asked Feuilly with the hint of a smile.
"France is such a lovely country. Pity it's full of French people." Grace said, voice oozing with sarcasm.
Bahorel and Grantaire burst out into raucous laughter.
"This one can definitely stay, Enjolras." Courfeyrac said, beaming widely.
The next thing Grace knew, she was being ushered over to the bar for a drink. A barrage of questions about who she was and what her beliefs were came barreling her way. Meanwhile, Grantaire poured her a large glass of something dark and ambery and thrust it towards her. It all seemed like a bit of a blur as she took a seat on an old, red velvet barstool. She tried her best to answer as best she could, but in the warmth and booze-filled interior of the Cafe d'ABC, she grew heady and sleepy.
It had been a long day and night in the carriage, and the initial adrenaline she'd felt before meeting the Amis was fading away now she'd been mostly accepted into the fold.
She looked around the room to find Enjolras engaged in deep conversation with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. They looked stern and serious, but she couldn't hear much of their words with Grantaire starting a drinking-song with Bahorel and Joly nearby.
She decided to take her glass of drink over to them and she saddled up beside Enjolras.
"Speaking of your visit home…" she heard Courfeyrac ask, just as she joined the conversation. "...How did your request for extra funding fair?"
"Badly." Enjolras responded grimly. "I'm afraid my mother and father were not the promising patrons that we had hoped for."
"So, it was a wasted journey?" asked Combeferre.
"I'm afraid so." Enjolras sighed.
The others were silent for a beat, their disappointment palpable.
"Damn." Combeferre muttered. "We really could have used a few extra francs."
"How are we going to purchase the rifles we need now?" asked Courfeyrac miserably. "We've all pretty much been disowned or cut-off from our families. Feuilly's fans can't bankroll a revolution. And with the National Guard rolling into town soon, we won't be able to get anymore on the sly from the corrupt policemen wanting to make a quick penny."
"The people will provide, Courfeyrac." Enjolras said hopefully. "We must not underestimate the very men and women that we claim to fight for."
"Do you think the washerwomen and gutter-cleaners out there have troves of cash hidden under their beds?!" he responded sceptically.
"Have faith, Courfeyrac!" Enjolras chided him. "They might not have a treasure trove under their beds, but a leftover rifle from the Revolution? Maybe. Perhaps we have a whole battalion of veterans from the Grand Armee out there."
"Do you really think so?" Combeferre asked, a glint of hope in the dark eyes poised underneath his glasses.
"When we call them to arms, the people will not let us down. I am sure of it." Enjolras stated confidently.
Although, when Grace glanced up into Courfeyrac's face, his expression was still stern and sceptical.
"Besides…" Enjolras added quickly. "…what about Marius? He's not yet been disowned by his family, has he?"
Grace remembered that name. Remembered the hauntingly sad music that had come with it. But as she glanced around the cafe, she couldn't see anyone to ascribe that name too.
"Is he here?" She asked curiously.
"Marius? Probably not. He's always late for one reason or another. Probably skulking around with that girl, Eponine."
Both of those names. Together. In such quick succession. It made Grace's head spin. The cafe became a distant swirl around her as that blended and mixed. She didn't even hear Grantaire approach her from behind…
"Enough talk of guns and guards for tonight! Enjolras is back! Let's celebrate!" His booming voice rang in her ears. "We should be welcoming our new recruit into the fold! Relax! Take off your coat! Take off your hat!"
Before she could even move to stop him, Grace felt the wind rush past her cheeks as her hat was lifted off her.
"Hey!"
But it was too late. She stood in the middle of the Cafe, feeling as naked as the day she was born. The boys stared at her, some of them with open mouths and wide eyes. Grace had to say something. Quick. Before they had time to process what they were seeing. Before they had time to realise she wasn't a man…
"Please…be kind to me, brothers." she said hurriedly.
"Kind to you?" Feuilly asked curiously.
"I never wanted it, you see…" Grace continued hurriedly, tucking the loose strands of her hair behind her ears. "But the man who was my guardian…he…he trained me to sing and perform when I was a boy."
She cast a quick, nervous glance at Enjolras, who returned her look with an equally perplexed expression on his face. She could tell he was wondering where she was going with this story…
"A singer?" asked Combeferre.
"Yes! I was the envy of the entire Cathedral choir. But then, as I began to reach the age of maturity, my angelic, boyish voice began to dip and…well…my guardian wanted me to stay as a contralto forever..."
Joly gasped. "You don't mean-"
"Yes. I was made… a castrato!"
Every man in the cafe winced, some touching a hand to their own pubic regions.
"Oh, Degas..!" Courfeyrac sighed empathetically.
"Hence why you see this… boyish and…immature face." Grace continued, gesturing at herself with a feigned look of sadness in her eyes. "The operation never allowed me to reach full maturity."
"I wondered why your voice sounded so…" Bahorel began, searching for the right word.
"High? Yes. my voice never deepened either."
Joly and Feuilly shook their heads with tuts of sympathy.
"Dreadful." Combeferre said mournfully. "I've heard there's a bit of a difference in the castration process, depending on which quack doctor you go to. Was it the whole orchidectomy or did they just induce a testicular atrophy?"
"Combeferre! You can't ask that! That's personal!" Feuilly exclaimed.
"I feel sick…" Joly mumbled.
"Sorry! Sorry… Medical curiosity, always getting the better of me." Combeferre said, bashfully looking down.
Grace snuck a quick look at Enjolras, poised at the back of the crowd, and she saw him trying to suppress a laugh.
"We need not talk about it any more." Grace said, trying to move away from this strange conversation. "It was a…traumatic part of my life and I've always been very self-conscious of my…dare I say… feminine features?"
"Feminine?! No! Not at all!" Exclaimed Joly.
"You are as much a man as the rest of us!" Combeferre said, giving her a comforting pat on the back.
"I knew you were a man straight away!" Announced Bahorel. "Look at this strong jaw! It's built for boxing!" He said, heartily grabbing Grace's face and shaking it jovially.
Grace wrestled out of his grasp and smiled to herself. She felt bad, having to lie to these men so soon after meeting them, but it was for the best. Would they have accepted into the fold so readily had they known she was a woman? Possibly not.
Still, the quiet chatter resumed and the raucous laughter commenced. Bahorel began pouring more glasses of the ambery liquid and soon everyone was consuming a swig or two. Eventually, Courfeyrac began hammering away at a small, square, wooden piano tucked up against one of the cafe's walls. Chipped with age and slightly out of tune, the music was loud and hopeful and soon had everybody singing.
"Soldier, soldier will you marry me,
With your musket, fife and drum?
Oh, how can I marry such a pretty girl as you, When I have no hat to put on?"
It was some sort of bawdy tune about a soldier who couldn't marry a woman until he had a coat, a pair of boots, a jacket… on and on the verses went until he admitted he already had a wife back home.
Singing along as best she could, Grace's voice soon became hoarse with laughter and music. Minutes passed by in this manner: so full of life and conviviality and warmth.
Yes. Grace thought. This is where the story is. This is where I'm meant to be.
She finished another glass of drink, having lost count of how many the boys had poured for her, to find Enjolras and Combeferre engaged in quiet conversation at one of the cafe's tables again. Their expressions were serious. Whatever they were debating was important. And she wondered what was so significant that Enjolras didn't want to share it with her…
She suddenly felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Grantaire standing at her side.
"Are you a man of vice, Degas?" He asked, holding something up to her that she had to blink twice at.
"Is that…"
"A new invention from Spain. Tobacco wrapped in fine paper. I find them easier to smoke than pipes. They are calling them 'papelates' but-"
"Fuck off, that's a cigarette!" Grace exclaimed, eyes staring hungrily at the thin cylinder in Grantaire's hand.
"A 'cigarette'. What a charming name for them!" He said, staring wistfully at it. "I suppose they are rather small, compared to cigars. Is that what they are referred to as in Oxford?"
Grace huffed a laugh and nodded.
She followed Grantaire outside, into the cold night air, where he struck a match and lit up before her. He blew out a long puff of smoke up at the sky and sighed.
"Smoking and booze. May they forever be inseparable, like Love and Marriage." He said, passing her the cigarette.
"Amen to that." Grace agreed, taking it from him.
Her mum would have been apoplectic if she could see her smoking now. But Grace was a musician. And one did not have a foot in the musician's world without also having a lip around a cigarette, at least socially.
The drag she took burned her lungs, but the hit of nicotine was intoxicating. They both listened for a while. The sounds of the city falling asleep played all around them:Babies crying in the distance as their mothers lay them down, the lamplighters trawling the streets and turning on the hiss of gas to ignite the flame, a woman telling-off her children somewhere inside one of the rookeries because they wouldn't go to sleep…
"Is Paris everything you expected it to be?" He asked her.
"Everything and more."
"And us too?" Grantaire asked, nodding back to the Cafe d'ABC.
"Oh, I was thoroughly warned about you lot." Grace responded with a sly smile. "And none of you have disappointed."
Grantaire chuckled again, taking a drink from another bottle. He always seemed to have a bottle on him, even when the booze was being passed around or poured out, he always seemed to have his own supply.
"And what about me? What warning did Enjolras give you about me?"
"You?" She asked nervously.
The drunk. The mistake. The embarrassment.
She couldn't say any of those things to Grantaire. Not to his face. Yes, he was loud and raucous, he smelt of cognac, and he'd been the one who'd almost outed her in front of the whole Les Amis gang. But there was a sadness in his eyes that she sensed. Something of a kindred spirit in the messy man before her. An ache that she recognised.
"Enjolras…spoke very highly of you." She said with a smile.
Grantaire huffed and lit another cigarette. "Not likely!"
Grace's eyes bulged and she swallowed hard. Perhaps she wasn't that good at lying after all.
She stayed quiet as she took another drag of her cigarette, waiting for Grantaire to say something to end her mortified silence.
But he merely laughed at her, flashing that care-free and crooked smile of his. It caught Grace quite off-guards
"I didn't think we'd have any more initiates. I think you took us all by surprise tonight, Degas." Grantaire said with a shrug.
"Surprise? How?"
"After Enjolras inaugurated me into the group, I didn't think he'd bring any more converts into our ranks. I've turned out to be too much of a disappointment, you see."
Grace didn't quite know what to say. It was clear Grantaire knew that he was not a favourite of Enjolras's, but whereas the others seemed to vie for his favour and praise, Grantaire almost relished in his dislike.
"But never mind! Perhaps you'll turn out better than me!" He announced, too forcefully to be casual.
"Then why do you stay?" Grace asked him cautiously.
He blew out another plume of smoke and swigged from his bottle. Grantaire rubbed at his dark, stubbled face and sighed theatrically.
"I suppose we all have our secrets, don't we, Degas."
He winked at Grace and flicked his cigarette into the gutter. He grinned broadly and slunked back into the cafe, leaving Grace alone in the street.
She waited there for a moment, trying to pick apart some hidden meaning in the words she'd just heard. Perhaps she was being thick. Perhaps she'd missed something important. But she shook her head and savoured the last few millimetres of her cigarette. That little piece of the future, in the past with her. When it was completely burnt out, she flicked it away too and wandered back into the warmth.
Grace shuffled up to Courfeyrac. He'd finished his turn on the piano keys and was rolling up his sleeves in front of Bahorel. From the look of it, and the money passing between Joly and Combeferre, they were about to arm wrestle.
"Um, where's the privy here?" She asked him quietly.
"Oh, we just use the alleyway out the back."
"Come on, Courfeyrac! I'll smash you, like I smashed you last week!" Bahorel roared, slamming his elbow down on the table between them.
"I've been lifting oak barrels every day! I'm ready for you!" He roared back, slamming his own elbow down too.
Grace left before the shouts and chants of encouragement from the others became too loud.
Eventually she found the alleyway behind the cafe. Dark and smelling of a cocktail of foulness, she pinched her nose and tried to fight down her gag. There was nothing to crouch or hide behind, but it was unlit and dim. It wouldn't be the most luxurious toilet she'd ever used, but then again what had she expected?
She fumbled in the dark for her belt buckle and unfastened herself. But no sooner had she loosened her belt, did she hear the small voice of a child behind her.
"Please, sir. Spare any change?"
She wheeled around, hands on her waistband, to see a tiny little raggamuffin staring up at her. His eyes were large and round beneath a face covered in muck and dirt. A sprout of straw-coloured hair peeked out from beneath a beaten and frayed brown cap. The rest of his clothes were in similar disrepair, and as Grace looked down at his hands, extended out towards her for money, she noticed that he didn't have any shoes on.
"Uhh…no, I'm sorry, I don't think I-"
But before she could finish the sentence, she heard the rapid approach of more small footsteps, and then the metallic thrum of a blade…
"Go!" Another child shouted, having cut the strap of Grace's satchel bag from off her.
Tahoe was left standing in stupefaction in the squalid alley as a small gang of children came gearing past her, the leader holding her satchel in hand.
"Hey…! HEY!" She shouted, finally coming out of her shock.
She took off after them. Running with a speed that only terror and desperation could give her.
Her phone, her old life, everything she'd brought back to the past with her was in that bag!
They were like scattering rats, the children. They scurried away from her, through the filthy streets, ducking, weaving and diving down passages and alleyways and gutters. They went in and out of houses, some emerging again, some disappearing forever.
But Grace kept her eyes firmly on the one with her bag.
"Give it back! Stop!" She roared at his back.
But the boy sprinted on. He knew these streets better than Grace. Knew when to avoid potholes and leap over the piles of horse-dung. Grace didn't. And she stumbled and tripped her way behind him.
"Stop! STOP!"
She followed the young boy deeper into the streets of Montmatre. Her breath turned ragged and her heart pumped in her ears. The boy cast a glance back at her and smirked. He was a touch older than the other children in the gang. Perhaps six inches taller than the others. And his whole face sang with mischief and roguery.
She was slowing. She'd almost lost the boy. Despair filled her as she watched her precious satchel slip further and further into the distance.
She heard the boy laugh. Her heavy feet slowed.
Then the boy ducked around and alleyway and collided face-first into a body.
He fell to the floor with a heavy "oof!" and sprawled across the cobblestones.
Grace caught up to him and bent over double as she tried to catch her breath.
"Gavroche, you really need to plan a new escape route." The person who the boy had collided with said reproachfully.
"That's…that's mine…" Grace wheezed, pointing at the satchel in the boy's hands.
"Ponine! I was almost at the sewer grate!" The young boy whinged.
Grace looked up at the person standing in the alleyway. She was a young woman. Thin of face and dark haired. She stood firm, with her hands in the pockets of her large beige coat and wearing an unimpressed scowl across her features.
"How did you find me?!" The young boy whined.
"I know everything that goes on in this city." The woman said with a roll of her eyes.
"Give that back, you little thief!" Grace said, lunging for the satchel.
The boy flinched and pressed the bag close to his chest.
"Give it back." The woman said to the boy commandingly. "He's one of them, from the cafe."
"Well, I ain't seen him with them before."
"He arrived with Enjolras on the afternoon stagecoach today."
"How do you know that?!" The boy moaned.
"I told you, I know everything that goes on in this city."
The boy groaned and rolled his eyes. Reluctantly he extended the satchel out towards Grace and she snatched it back from him.
"Sorry, mate." The boy said with a cheeky smile.
Grace didn't quite know what to say. She was seething with anger, but also giddy with relief. She had her bag back. Cautiously, she opened the top flap and peered inside, happy to find her phone and the rest of her things from the future were still inside it.
"Go on." The woman said to the boy dismissively. "Bugger off. Find another naive tourist to mug."
"Hey!" Grace said, feeling a little slighted.
"No offence." The woman said to her.
Without another word, the boy picked himself up and went running off into the distance. Grace hugged her bag close, feeling overly protective of it now she had almost lost her only link to the future.
"Thank you." She eventually said to the woman in the alleyway.
She shrugged and sighed back, "Me and Gavroche do a lot of work for the boys of the ABC cafe. We know where our bread is buttered."
"Hmm." Grace said, not quite sure of what to make of this woman. "You were watching then, were you? When me and Enjolras arrived?"
"Of course. What I can't quite figure out though is why everyone else can't use their eyes."
"Wh-What do you mean?"
"You ain't no man." The girl laughed.
Grace went cold. "I…I don't know what you-"
"Oh come off it, 'Monsieur Degas'." She said mockingly. "For all their learning and their books and their universities, that lot in the cafe wouldn't know a wolf in sheep's clothing if it bopped them on the head! The things I know, you don't find in books."
Grace thought about arguing. She thought about repeating the same cock and bull story about being a castrati to her. But in the end she gave up. The girl in front of her had too much of a world-weary and hard look in her eye. Those naive boys in the cafe might have swallowed that tale, but this woman of the streets wouldn't believe a word of it.
"Are you going to tell them?" She asked quietly.
"Nah. What does that gain me? Nothing." She said flippantly, shrugging her slim shoulders again. "And you have your reasons. And anyone stupid enough to lie about what they are, so they can get themselves beaten and harassed by the police force… well, you've gotta really want to be part of the Amis."
Grace snorted and dared a smile. The woman smiled too, extending a delicate hand out towards her.
"I'm Eponine."
"Eponine?" Grace asked, that beautiful and sad melody sounding off in her head the moment she said it.
D, E, G, G, E, C
And rain will make the flowers grow… She remembered, recalling those strange words that she had teased out of her memory.
She'd heard this woman's name, a lot. First, mentioned by Cosette. Then linked to that other name, Marius. Whoever this girl was, she was significant. And even though her face was hollowed with hunger and her skin was white with malnutrition, just like the countless other Parisian unfortunates she'd glimpsed out of the carriage window, Eponine felt different to them all.
Grace knew how to take a hint when she was being given one, and this girl was a big hint. Somehow, she was part of the story too.
"What's your name? Your real name?" Eponine asked with another firm scowl.
Grace opened her mouth and closed it, unsure of whether she could trust this girl that she'd just met.
"I won't tell anyone. Promise." She added when Grace said nothing. "Well…not unless they offer me a big bag of francs for it!" She added with a wink.
Grace sighed and let out a laugh. "Grace. My name is Grace. But to everyone else here, I'm Romily Degas."
"Bloody hell, that's quite the mouthful." Eponine laughed.
"Well, there aren't many people called 'Eponine' where I come from." Grace shot back.
The girl scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Well, you're in my city now. Not yours." She said playfully.
"Well, Eponine, could you walk me back to the Cafe d'ABC?" Grace asked lightly. "I seem to have gotten myself a bit lost, chasing that little street urchin through Montmatre."
"Of course, Romily."
Eponine waved invitingly down the alleyway and Grace turned on her heels.
"But maybe…" Grace began, turning back to face her again. "…you can show me around a bit more first? This is your city, after all. And if I'm gonna survive here, I think I'll need a guide."
"Alright, but if you're going to be as stupid as to wear your bag around your body, telling all the thieves in the district that you've got valuables on you, then I'm not stepping in again to get your possessions back." Eponine said, pointing sharply at the satchel in Grace's hands.
Grace blinked at her bag and then at Eponine, a little too stunned to speak.
"That's lesson number one." Eponine added, a confident smile on her face.
She walked off into the streets of Paris and Grace, a little scared of being left alone in another dark alleyway, followed her without hesitation.