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cracking marble
act two, winter
chapter five, little town

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( novembre , 1831 )

THE PATRIA INCIDENT did turn out rather humorously, or Mathilde at least had thought so upon witnessing the reaction of the boys once Ferre had broken the news the following day.

         "Fatherland?! Boy, am I fool! I daresay I'm lost for words—!"

         "Courfeyrac, please get off the floor!"

Even so, upon her reflection of the incident, she had come to the conclusion that her favourite reaction was earned by Grantaire, who simply gave a groan before smashing his head onto the tabletop.

The bruise that had resulted had lasted for around five days, despite Joly thinking it was a sign of cholera from all the wine he was drinking at the Musain — that had successfully earned him a slap from Madame Houcheloupe.

Enjolras, however, was nonchalant. He claimed that he had never said anything that suggested Patria was anything other than the fatherland.

But from the split second when Combeferre announced it was his younger sister's intellect that sought him out and his porcelain lips curved into a ghost of a smile; Mathilde could see that once again — no matter how much he would deny he was so — he had been impressed by her.

Her presence at the meetings had certainly made an impact; something the young woman reckoned that he had not preempted.

But, as time ran on, part of the blonde began to believe that maybe he didn't mind her presence as much he once thought he would; that perhaps he liked her showing up. Just as she liked seeing and talking to him everyday.

A few weeks had passed since that autumn when Mathilde had first ambushed the group in the Café Musain, and the warm tones of that season were beginning to transition into those cooler and paler of winter.

It was mid November at the most, a light frost glazed the streets but nothing too hazardous; the full power of winter had yet too strike.

        It was a morning just as any other. The sun was high, shining bleakly down to earth which was in the grasp of a crisp breeze. It was nine o'clock; no later.

         Amélie and Mathilde exited their house on Rue Plumet, the younger of the two bounded down the steps leading to their front door with her older sister skipping after her, a book clutched in hand and the coins in her pocket jingling as she did so.

        Combeferre had left to meet the other boys earlier that day to secure the meeting room before the swarms from the weekly market took over the Musain.

         "Little town; it's a quiet village." Amélie hummed as Mathilde shut the gate, to their residence, behind them. "Everyday like the one before."

         They turned the corner of the street, straight into the neighbouring one; the buzz of the market growing louder by the footstep.

         "Little town; full of little people," She grinned up at her sister, jogging a little further ahead. "Waking up to say..."

         Turning the next corner, the two sisters were hit by the ambience of the market as it lit up the square like a firework display.

          "Bonjour!" Amélie cried out in time wi  to her song, a bright smile dressing her features as she spoke to the crowd of tradespeople.

         The buzz of the market continued with slight interruptions of simultaneous cries of 'Bonjour!' that sounded out in response to the little girl.

        Mathilde could only chuckle at the girl's enthusiasm, nudging her shoulder and grabbing her hand, leading her over to their first errand of the day.

          "There goes the baker with his bread like always;" Mathilde sang, as they approached the stall that the local baker Monsieur Jaqueline had set up, "Croissants and pastries; freshly grilled."

         Amélie's eyes widened as the pair came nearer to the stall; the vast selection of pastries nearly becoming too much for her little mind.

        "Every morning just the same, since the morning that we came to this poor provincial town—"

         "Good day, Mathilde!"

         Monsieur Jaqueline was smiling broadly as he appeared from the back of his stall, carrying two large baguettes in hand.

        "Hello Amélie!" He added, to which she responded with a small wave before hiding behind her sister.

         "Good morning!" Mathilde replied with a curt nod and small smile. "We're here to pick up the order we placed a couple of days ago?"

         "Yes, quite a bit, I see." He remarked, checking a paper, no doubt bearing our receipt.

          "Yes, a basket for the boys at the café and a basket for our little friends." The blonde elaborated, her small smile never fading as she spared a look at Amélie, who was still eyeing the pastries.

          "That'll be twenty francs." He summarised, pushing forward two baskets full of baked goods he'd been preparing.

         The blonde reached into the pocket of her dress — Madame Houcheloupe had not specified just how practical Mathilde would find various aspects of these new clothing items — and withdrew various coins, counting out twenty francs.

         "It's a good thing that Mama is letting us be so charitable, isn't it?" The young woman notably remarked to Amélie, in the hope of avoiding arousing the suspicion of Monsieur Jaqueline.

          Even though, many of the salespeople were familiar with her own and Amélie's presence, Mathilde still wanted to avoid any talk of two middle class girls suddenly spending lavish amounts of money in lower class markets.

         "Yes." Amélie replied, her gaze tearing away from pastries and nodding vigorously, as her sister paid the baker his due and took one of the baskets on her arm and passed the other down to Amélie.

          "Merci, M'sieur." She thanked him, flashing a smile as the pair fell into step once more and made their way towards the remainder of the market.

          "Farewell!" He called after them, happily.

          "Look there she goes, the girl is strange for certain," A couple of women, standing by a nearby fruit stall, muttered as the blonde passed their stall. "What girl is clever, brave and skilled?"

          A small sigh left Mathilde's lips, as she kept her gaze focused on the street ahead of her. Since immersing herself more in town life, her status had not attracted her the undeserved attention as she'd anticipated, however her activities certainly did.

          "Always part of that big crowd, with her head up on a cloud." She could hear a butcher mutter to a customer, "No denying, she's a funny one, Mathilde."

        Amélie clutched her sister's hand with her free one, her other holding onto her basket of bread, as they weaved their way in and out of the vibrant stalls, hearing various encounters between people.

        "Bonjour." One person would say.

         "Good day." Another would reply.

          "How is your family?" The same old boring question.

           And again.

          "Bonjour."

          "Good day."

          "How is your wife?"

           "I need six eggs!" The young woman heard the desperate tones of another customer cry to a farmer as she barged past them, nearly knocking Amélie off her feet. "That's too expensive!"

          "There must be more than this provincial life!" Mathilde cried into the hustle of the street market, her brow furrowing as her plea went unheard.

          "Ripe strawberries!"

          "Freshly bakes bread, ladies and gents!"

           "Didn't you say you wanted to stop by the book shop?" Amélie called up to her sister, having to raise her voice slightly for her to hear over the sound of the vendors.

           "Yes!" The blonde cried in a sudden relief, her memory coming back to her, "Well done you for remembering."

          The duo moved more quickly through the crowds towards the other side of the square where the Baptiste Bookshop resided.

         The edges of the square were practically bare in comparison to the centre and none more so than the quaint bookshop that the two sisters moved to enter.

         The overhead door bell sounded as Amélie pushed open the heavy door into the humble bookshop.

         It gave an air of warmth that combatted the chill nipping everyone outside; shelves packed with books, running down every wall. And at the till, a woman in her early forties, making notes in her book-keeping log.

          "Hello, Madame!" Mathilde cried, jovially, upon entry, falling victim to the overwhelming scent of worn books.

          Madame Baptiste looked up from her log, a tired smile stretching across her face. 

          "Hello Mathilde," She replied, with a small chuckle, "and young Amélie," She added, feigning shock, "I dare say you're getting more and more pretty every time I see you."

         "Merci, Madame." Amélie giggled, swaying on the spot, before the blonde let her hand go and the young girl ran off to look at some of the children's books.

         "I came to return this." Mathilde stated, revealing the book she'd recently borrowed, which had been tucked under her arm for the majority of our journey, "No scratches or crumpled pages, I assure you."

         She laid the book on the counter, where it bore the title; A Midsummer Night's Dream.

          "Good," Madame Baptiste smiled, jotting down the return in her log, before looking up and pursing her lips in curiosity. "How did you find it?"

          "Enchanting!" The blonde replied, breathlessly, as a genuine smile broke across her face.

         "I thought you might." Madame Baptiste chuckled, taking the book from the counter and placing it on the cabinet behind her, "You strike me as a lover of the fanciful."

         "Do you have anything similar?" The blonde enquired, shuffling through a small pile of books on the counter, yet to be logged.

         "No, I'm afraid not." She sighed, with a sympathetic gaze, "But I do have your favourite," She added, her smile returning to her features as she pulled out a book from the nearby shelf and set it down on the counter between them. "And it's yours if you want it."

         "You kid me, Madame!" Mathilde cried, in astonishment, as the shop owner handed her the play.

         "Never." Madame Baptiste replied, as the blonde caressed the edges of the book with intense care. "No one else takes it out apart from you and Monsieur Baptiste and I have a copy at home; it's yours."

          "You're too kind, Madame." Mathilde smiled, giving her hand a compassionate squeeze.

          "I insist." The older woman finalised, patting the blonde's hand before turning back to her log. "Now, be off with you."

         "Merci!" Mathilde called, as Amélie pulled open the door, and they exited the shop, Romeo and Juliet now clutched in the blonde's hand, as they emerged back into the busy square; back to the whispers.

         "Look there she goes, the girl is so peculiar," A group of salesmen muttered, as they made our way towards the road leading to the Musain, "Her quirks may one day get her killed."

        "With a dreamy, far-off look and her nose stuck in a book," More people muttered, as the blonde clutched her book tightly to her chest, "What a puzzle to us all is that Mathilde."

        Another sigh left the mouth of the older girl which caught the attention of her younge roaster who spared her a sympathetic glance. However, that sympathy was very short-lived once her gaze caught something else, causing her eyes to light up.

         "Look!"

         A horse-drawn wagon was making its way down the streets; its wagon empty. Amélie looked up at her sister hopefully, who only chuckled at her.

          "If we can catch it." Mathilde told her, with a knowing grin which earned a squeal of excitement from the young girl.

         With that, they walked briskly alongside the cart before taking a step behind it and, after a quick run up, jumping onto the edge of the wagon, their feet dangling off the side.

         Amélie was giggling uncontrollably, and Mathilde couldn't help but chuckle along. She had dreamed that she would ever find herself riding through the streets of Paris in such a way, but the boys at the Café had really opened her eyes to the way of life downtown.

        The wagon advanced, wobbling slightly, as they progressed down the street, the young woman absentmindedly stroking the book gently as it resided on her lap.

          "Why do you love that book so much?" Amélie asked her, tilting her head as she tried to read the cover.

         "How could I not?" Mathilde countered, her voice still bearing the same airiness as she had in the bookshop. "Far off places, daring sword fights, potions and tonics, star-crossed lovers!"

        And that was only to name a few. As cliche she it was, there were a thousand more reasons that made Shakespeare's most celebrated tragedy Mathilde's favourite book.

          "Oh, isn't it amazing?" The blonde elaborated, flicking through the pages to my favourite scene; act one, scene five. "It's my favourite part because— you see."

          Amélie's eyebrows furrowed in concentration as her sister handed her the play, and pointed out the part she talked of.

         "Here, where she meets her Prince Charming." The blonde sighed gently removing the book from her sister's grasp. "But she won't discover that it's him, til chapter three!"

         As Mathilde removed her gaze from the book, she found it was lost in the events of the streets as she passed them. Yet, one particularly caught her eye.

          The frail girl about her age in her tattered clothes and with her mangled brown hair, making her way down the street in the opposite direction.

          "Éponine!" The blonde cried in delight, as she jumped off the wagon and beckoned Amélie to do the same.

         The brunette's attention was caught by the cry of her name and she welcomed the pair with a warm smile, as she moved towards her. For her, seeing a friendly face was like a thousand gifts on Christmas.

          "Hello Mathilde, how are you?" She smiled, pulling the two of them to the side of the street out of the road, as they caught our breath.

          "Quite well." Mathilde replied, contently, before looking over one of her only female friends.

          Her cheeks looked more sunken than usual, and her eyes — albeit happier now in conversation with a friend — held a deep blackness than what the young woman was used to.

         "God above, you look famished." The blonde said, with a shaky sigh; she worried dearly for the girl. "Here, have some of this—"

         Mathilde reached down to the basket, hanging on her left arm, but as she was about to withdraw a roll Éponine stopped her.

         "Mathilde, don't." She replied, her gaze finding the pavement, her cheeks flushing red, "You know I hate charity."

          "It's hardly charity," The blonde scoffed, stroking her arm gently, "We're friends, are we not?"

         Éponine looked back up, eyeing the bread in her friend's hand before giving her a grin — very similar to that of her younger brother, Gavroche.

         "Take it." Mathilde persisted with a knowing look, putting the bread roll in her hand.

           "Merci." She smiled, before taking a large bite, earning a faint chuckle from the blonde beside her.

        "Will we be seeing you at the meeting?" The blonde asked, looking over her shoulder at Amélie who was talking with an child around her age, a couple of paces away.

         "I expect so," Éponine nodded, in between mouthfuls. "But not for a while."

          Mathilde quirked an eyebrow at her comment, encouraging her to expand.

         "I said I'd meet Marius at your street and we'd go together." She explained, a rosy flush washing across the tops of her cheeks.

          Another event that had occurred over the recent weeks was that Mathilde learning that she was no longer the newest member of Les Amis de l'ABC and instead that title had been claimed by one Marius Pontmercy.

        He was a student just like Enjolras and Courfeyrac, the latter having encouraged to join. He had been evicted from his Grandfather's estate for his encouragement of ridiculous revolutionist ideologies. Yet while he was eager to join, it took a while for him to fully understand the aim of the organisation; to free the people.

        And his obsession with Napoleon was exceptionally infuriating.

          But all the same, he joined the cause and was revealed to be quite the gentleman, winning over Éponine in a matter of seconds — much to his own oblivion.

          Mathilde had to admit that she'd also grown quite fond of the man; the air of blissful ignorance about him admittedly was a little off putting, however she could see the passion and hope that lit up his freckled face whenever Enjolras gave a speech.

        "How is your — um — endeavour with Monsieur Pontmercy?" The blonde enquired, a small smirk threatening to creep across her lips.

          "Unsuccessful." Éponine sighed, earning a sympathetic smile from her friend, "But he will see eventually, just you wait." She added, beginning to walk away, her signature smirk back in its rightful place.

          "Goodbye 'Ponine!" Mathilde called, with a small wave before turning to around to face Amélie.

         Time was ticking on and if they were any later than quarter past the hour, the blonde knew that there was no doubt, Enjolras would surely have her head.

         "Amélie, quickly!" She cried, taking her hand in her own and walking briskly down the street toward the Musain, bypassing even more people on their way to market.

          "Now it's no wonder that her name means mighty." A shopkeeper said, tugging the reins of his mule, as they trudged down the street. "Her disposition is strong-willed."

         "But behind her fair façade," I heard a familiar chorus gaggle. "I'm afraid she's rather odd."

          Mathilde turned her head ever so slightly and and saw a group of barmaids from the Musain, looking at her from across the street, probably browsing in some of the shops before their shift started.

         She hadn't taken a particular liking to any of them, though it couldn't be said that she hadn't tried. But it seemed she could say the same for them, they weren't particularly fond of the notion that Enjolras permitted Mathilde into their meetings and not them.

        In short; they really were not fond of her.

         "Awfully different from the rest of us." Another barmaid put in, her lips pursing in contempt.

          "Oh, she's nothing like the rest of us." They giggled together like a band of geese.

         "Yes, different from the rest is that Mathilde!"

          Another tired sigh left the young woman, as by the final sentiment, she could have sworn it felt as though the whole street joined in their cackling.

        Still, she tried to pay them little mind, as she pressed on; another step closer to the Musain, and away from these people.

***

         WHILE MATHILDE AND Amélie progressed, hand in hand, towards the Café, they were unaware of the two men watching them — or more specifically, Mathilde.

         "There she is, Marceau." The taller of the two men said, a smug smirk resident on his face. "My future wife."

         The smaller of the two men gave a disbelieving grimace, fiddling with the reins of his horse.

         "Mathilde is the most beautiful girl to ever set foot in the whole of Paris." The taller man stated, adjusting his hat upon his head. "And that makes her best."

          "But she's so well-read." The other gentleman said to his counterpart, scrunching up his eyes in distaste. "And you're so — so athletically inclined."

         In no way whatsoever could Marceau see how Antoine thought he and Mathilde were so perfectly suited.

          "Yes." Antoine acknowledged, with almost a grimace, "But ever since the war, I felt like I've been missing something. And she's the only girl that gives me the sense of —"

          "Je ne sais quoi?" Marceau suggested, slightly mockingly.

         "I don't know what that means."

          Antoine moved forward on his horse down the street after the young maiden with his partner not far behind.

         "Right from the moment that I met her; saw her, I had one task to be fulfilled." Antoine explained to Marceau, over the racket of the market.

          Marceau could do no more than give a reluctant nod.

          "And that task, I'm sure you see, is as plain as plain can be." Antoine smirked, puffing out his chest. "It's the simple fact that I must wed Mathilde."

***

        "LOOK THERE HE GOES, isn't he dreamy?" The chorus of barmaids caught Mathilde's attention once more. "M'sieur Antoine, oh, he's so cute!"

         "Oh no." She heard herself mutter, turning abruptly on her heel, catching sight of just what was causing the excitement amongst the barmaids. 

         "Be still, my heart, I'm hardly breathing!"

         Monsieur Antoine was an old army general, approaching the forty of not more. He had fought in the Napoleonic Wars from 1803, and was widely respected amongst the townsfolk.

          But no matter how much honour he claimed to have; no matter how many medals of valour he had, nothing could blind the blonde to his insufferable arrogance.

         Mathilde found him quite honestly foul, and her rejection of him seemed to only made him all the more obsessed with her being.

         "He's such a tall, dark, strong and handsome brute!"

          The man had stopped to tie up his horse by the nearby inn, now on foot accompanied by his good friend, Marceau, his eagle eyes were overlooking the market, and the blonde knew exactly what for.

        Without any more hesitation, she turned around, with the hope of hiding my face, and darted into the dense crowd of the market circling just before the Musain, dragging Amélie closely behind her.

         "Bonjour!" A shoe-shiner cried.

        "Pardon!" A man, sharpening knives, replied.

         "Good day!" Mathilde called out, earning a wry smile from the man shining shoes, as she bustled past his stall.

         "Mais, oui! You call this bacon?" She heard a customer complain as she proceeded.

          "What lovely flowers!" Another customer remarked at another stall.

          "Some cheese. One pound!"

          "Excuse me." The blonde heard a familiar booming voice; Antoine must have spotted her.

          "I'll get the knife." The man selling the cheese replied to his enquiring customer.

          "Please let me through!"

          "This bread — it's stale!"

          "Those fish — they smell!"

           "Madame's mistaken!" The fishmonger and baker replied together, in harmony.

          "There must be more to this provincial life!" Mathilde cried, exasperatedly, as they stopped just before the Musain, at the street down which Amélie would soon run to meet Gavroche.

          "Just watch, as I go make Mathilde my wife!"

         "Take those to Gavroche and the rest of your friends, quickly, it's getting very busy!" The blonde told her younger sister, as she bent down to her level, and tapped her basket.

         She gave an obedient nod, and Mathilde rose up once more taking those final few steps towards the Café, as Amélie skipped away from the scene.

         "Look there she goes, that girl is strange but special."

          The blonde ran through the last bit of the crowd, up to the doors of the Musain; they were locked.

         "Quite one to represent her guild."

         A frustrated sigh left her lips as she began knocking harshly on the door. She expected that Madame would have locked the doors so as to avoid tradesmen barging in and offering her samples. 

           "It's a pity and a sin that she doesn't quite fit in. 'Cause she really is a funny girl. A beauty but a funny girl."

          "Madame, open up!" She cried, knocking on the door with all her might — the last thing she wanted was to start her day with a demeaning conversation with Antoine.

         But just then, Mathilde heard the lock unlatch with a click.

          "She really is a funny girl; Mathilde!"

          With a disgruntled look at the townspeople piling into the street, whose gazes were still on her, the blonde took a step forward and was promptly dragged into the Musain by a familiar pair of hands.

          The door slammed shut behind her with a thud and Mathilde let out a large breath that she hadn't been aware she was holding.

         "About time! You're running a little late, aren't you?" Madame Houcheloupe asked with a quirk of her eyebrow; hands on hips.

          "Yes, that journey was an absolute age!" Mathilde remarked, throwing her hair behind her shoulders. "The provinciality of some of those people really gets me—"

          "Have they speaking wrongly about you, again?" Madame asked her, a look of intrigue that crossed her features quickly morphing into a look of maternal fury.

         She refused to be dishonest, and so with a half smile and furrowing her eyebrows, looking to the ground, the blonde answered her.

        "Yes, but—"

        "Oh, I'll show them a piece of my mind!" Madame cut the young woman off, rolling up her sleeves, and turning on her heel towards the entrance to the Musain.

         "Madame, please!" Mathilde objected, desperately, grasping the woman's arm and turning her back to face her.

        "I only wish they'd stop." Madame told her, as she met her gaze with a sympathetic smile.

         "I should just go upstairs before Enjolras tears my head off." The blonde muttered, hurriedly, withdrawing her book from the basket, and holding it in my left hand whilst holding the bread basket in her right.

          "Alright, go!" Madame replied, regaining her normal enthusiasm, which in turn brightened the young woman's own spirits a little.

         Mathilde gave her a small smile, before walking briskly toward the staircase, and jogging up the first few steps before stopping in her tracks.

         "Oh, and Madame?" The blonde grasped her attention, once more. "If he asks, please tell Monsieur Antoine that I'm not here."

        Madame gave her a knowing smile, she was one of the only women who shared that distaste for the old general.

         And with that, Mathilde clambered up the remaining stairs and into the meeting room through the door that was left ajar.

         A few of the boys had assembled early, and she gave a large sigh in announcement of my arrival.

         The leader in red sat at the opposite end of the room, his face looking down onto a piece paper which, by the looks of it, he was critiquing.

         He did not look up on my arrival but recognised my presence all the same.

          "Mathilde, you're late." He muttered, irritably, at which she could only roll her eyes.

        She'd learnt in the last week or so that Enjolras' hostility was nothing to take personally it was just his way of being — according to Grantaire, at least.

         But she didn't believe that. It was a façade. She'd get him to show his true colours some day, she swore it to herself.

         "I brought gifts?" The blonde responded, with a weak excuse, presenting the basket of baked goods and placing them down on the table to her right in front of Feuilly. "Breakfast anyone?"

        "Mathilde, I adore you." Courfeyrac declared melodramatically as he made his way over to the basket.

         "Oh, I know." She smirked in response, as he pressed a chivalrous kiss to her cheek before grabbing a cheese pastry.

         Mathilde scanned the faces of the rest of the boys as they came to grab their breakfast, each of them nodding in thanks. However, when one of them did so, they received a less than ladylike response from the blonde.

        The freckled boy grinned at the young woman, as he reached into the basket for a croissant.

        "Pontmercy, what are you doing here?" She asked, furrowing my eyebrows, distastefully.

         "I came for the meeting, Mathilde." Marius answered patronisingly, "Did you hit your head on the journey?"

        The Pontmercy boy made to pat her head, in a condescending fashion. Yet, before he could continue his action, the young woman grabbed his wrist and twisted it harshly before shoving it back at him.

         "Ouch!" He yelped, shaking his wrist to try and numb the pain.

         Mathilde replied with a forced smile of innocence, as the rest of the boys tried to mask their laughter by eating more pastry.

        "It seems you're the one who's touched in the head, Marius," She retorted, clenching her jaw, and folding her arms across her front. "As a source tells me that you should be meeting Éponine at Rue Plumet, at this very moment."

         The colour drained from his normally flushed face, and was replaced with a tone so pale it would put marble to shame.

         "Oh Lord above."

         "He's not going to help you now." The blonde replied, eyes narrowing and she stared him down.

        Seeing his lack of movement, she decided that the boy needed a few additional words of encouragement to get him on his way.

         "I would think it highly ungentlemanly for you to ignore such a commitment." Mathilde told him, with mock sincerity.

         "Excuse me?" Marius announced to the room, albeit feather hesitantly, as he scanned it looking for Enjolras' approval.

        Enjolras gave him an affirmative nod, and Marius bowed his head slightly before walking to the door and almost instantaneously running down the stairs as though his head were on fire.

         "If anything drives me to insanity, it'll be that boy." Mathilde muttered, turning back to the boys who still had their mouths too full of pastry to respond.

         Her gaze flitted back to the leader in red; tapping his foot on the floor, letting out large breaths of exhaustion every couple of seconds.

         There were dark circles under his eyes, and every now and then he would take his hand through his meadow of hair as though that would somehow cure his fatigue.

         The blonde wouldn't have been surprised if he had stayed at the Musain all night; overworking himself, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat—

        Without hesitation, she averted her gaze and reached for the bread basket and withdrew one of the fruit buns given to her that morning.

        The other boys thought nothing of it as she walked away towards Enjolras, they kept jabbering away while stuffing their faces.

         Mathilde stood in front of the marble man for a second or two before he looked up at me and acknowledged her presence.

         "Here." She said shortly, placing the fruit bun down in front of him.

        He eyed it for a second, before looking back at me. Mathilde quirked an eyebrow, as he looked back at the bun.

         "I'm not hungry, thank you." He said monotonously, before looking back down at his draft.

         The blonde gave a short sigh of discontent, before pulling out the chair next to him and taking a seat, looking directly at him.

         "Yes, you are." She told him, "And I know you like the fruit buns, so eat."

       She reached for the fruit bun and placed it rather unceremoniously in her hand, shooting him a pointed look. After a moment, he set down his quill and leaned back into his chair and took a bite of the fruit bun.

        "You should learn to accept gestures of kindness, Enjolras," Mathilde advised him, a small smirk creeping onto her features. "I think it would do you some good."

         "Thank you." He nodded, after a swallowing his bite.

         "You look terrible." Mathilde replied, honestly, looking him over again.

          He choked on his second bite of fruit bun, clearly taken aback by my response.

         "Ah, yes. You're quite one with flattery, aren't you?" He muttered, sarcastically.

        The blonde would have smiled but the bruised marble figure in front of her was too stupendous for her to acknowledge him.

         "Why do you do this to yourself?" She asked him, furrowing her eyebrows in concern. "You should sleep, the revolution will still be here when you wake up."

          The marble man looked at me; the voice of reason, marvelled.

        "Don't wear yourself out." She concluded, giving him half a smile. "It's hardly a revolution if our leader's half asleep now is it?"

         He suppressed a chuckle, but he couldn't quite hide the brightness his eyes obtained at her comment.

         "So what have I missed?" The young woman asked, changing the subject of conversation and sitting up straighter.

         "Nothing, your brother was just dating the minutes." He explained, taking another bite of his food, a foreign glint of what Mathilde could only recognise as mischief shining from the blue of his eyes.

          "You liar!" She accused, amidst a chuckle, slightly astonished that Enjolras had been anything but serious. "You said I was late. I missed nothing!"

          "I was merely humouring you." He confessed, dusting off his hands as he finished the bun, the corners of his lips curving into the ghost of a smile.

         "I'm in shock." The blonde declared, incredulously. "I wasn't aware that you and humour went hand in hand at all."

          "Maybe you're rubbing off on me." Enjolras suggested in a hushed tone, only making her smile grow wider.

         "Maybe." She responded, her smile never faltering as the man turned back to his work, his spirits undoubtedly lifted.

***

         MANY HOURS HAD PASSED, the evening was fast approaching and the market still threw a thriving trade.

         The rest of the boys had arrived by this point arrived, and the group had spent the entirety of the day in the 'meeting' — the word which was losing its meaning rapidly.

        At six o'clock, Enjolras declared that if they wanted to chatter they should do it downstairs as he claimed he couldn't think due to their noise levels.

         Mathilde had been hesitant at first, as she knew by going downstairs she was at risk of exposure to Antoine, but Éponine assured her that if he came within ten yards of the blonde, she'd punch him senseless. And so that was how she found herself downstairs at the bar with a very happy Grantaire.

         "Mathilde?" The blonde heard a voice beckon from across the room, she looked over my shoulder and saw Joly, accompanied by Feuilly, make their way towards her.

         "Excuse me, R." She smiled, patting the drunk's forearm, as she turned and stood from her seat at the bar.

        "Feuilly and I are going to visit Chetta, she's still at the market stall in Saint Michel, would you like to join us?" Joly proposed with a smile, that he full well the young woman could never say no to.

         Chetta — or Musichetta — was Joly's lady friend. They had been together for a long while according to Joly, and she was an outstanding woman, whom Mathilde had met twice since joining Les Amis.

        She worked at the dressmaker's in Saint Michel, and the two women had bonded over their mutual love of literature which came about after Mathilde had found Much Ado About Nothing on the desk at the front of her shop.

         "Definitely!" The blonde cried, a broad smile spreading across her lips.

         Joly offered the young woman his arm but before she could take it, a thought flashed into her mind.

         "I'll be one minute," She excused herself, jogging back towards the staircase, "I just have to get my book from upstairs to show Chetta. I think she'll like it."

         Mathilde clambered up the stairs but halted just before the meeting room, the door was left ajar as it commonly was, now.

         Enjolras had not moved since the morning from what she could tell, he was still sat at that very same table, his hair falling into his hair as he furiously scribbled away.

         Whilst he looked tense, he somehow also looked at peace; tranquil.

        Mathilde gently shook her head at the sight before slowly entering the room; she looked around and found my book, lying open at Enjolras' side.

          "Hey there Monsieur, what's new with you?" The blonde smiled, grasping his attention as she made her way across the room. "Plotting to overthrow the state."

         She took her book back from where it rested on his desk, only to see it open at act one, scene five; the self same act and scene that she had raved about to Amélie that very morning.

          "You're still pretending to be harsh?" Mathilde asked him with a quirk of an eyebrow, as he stopped his scribbling and looked up at her, mildly humoured. "Come on, I know you're much more so."

         "If we rally the people; we'll advance." He explained, pointing to document which he had been writing and rewriting all day, "If it gets them to fight; we must take that chance."

         The blonde smiled as his passion presented itself once more; the quality of his that made him quite so attractive to her.

          "Well, I like the way you talk, Monsieur." She responded, as he rose from his seat, so that his eyes were level with mine.

          "I like the way you always tease." He smirked, resting his hands on the desk as leaning forward towards her.

        Mathilde mirrored his smirk, clutching the book tightly to my chest. She was about to ask him what business he had in reading it, but before she could a call of her name broke her from her thoughts.

         "Mathilde, are you coming?"

         She turned to see Feuilly stood in the doorway, with a raised eyebrow. Enjolras sank back down into seat and began scribbling again.

         "Little she knows."

         Mathilde gave Feuilly a small nod and made her way over to the doorway, Feuilly led the way down the stairs. She stalled and spared a glance behind her, Enjolras had his head back down again, looking at his work.

          "Little he sees." She sighed, barely audibly, as she departed from the room.

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