Montparnasse ran his thumb over the edge of his knife. Squinting in the dark room, he looked expectantly at the man sitting next to him. "You said something about a plan, Babet?"

The wily little man smiled maliciously and said, "I'll tell you as soon as Claquesous arrives."

"Claquesous is already here," a voice from the shadows replied.

Montparnasse glanced in the direction from which the voice had come. "Then that's all of us," the handsome young murderer swept his gaze to include Babet, and the massive hulk of Gueulemer, who had up till then remained silent. "You can tell us your plan whenever you're ready, Babet."

Babet smiled again and began, "I'm sure that we could all use a few francs now and then..."

"Couldn't we always?" Montparnasse snorted. He looked down at his coat, which was not only threadbare, but out of style as well.

"If it's money you want," Babet continued, "I can guarantee you that my idea will make us all rich for months to come."

"Then hurry up and tell us your idea!" Gueulemer snapped.

"Impatience doesn't become you, Gueulemer," Babet retorted, then went on, "I'm sure you've seen some of the students in this city? The wealthy, well-dressed, fancied-up students walking to their cafés in their expensive shoes?"

"What has that got to do with anything?" whined Gueulemer.

Babet glowered at him, but the action lost effectiveness in the dark. "The point I was coming to," he said through clenched teeth, "is that those students have wealthy parents who love them and provide for them. And how do you think those parents would react if something were threatening their dear children? Don't you think they would be willing to use their wealth to insure their children's safety? What I'm proposing is that we hold one of the little brats for ransom until the parents are willing to do, or spend, anything to get their dear little son back."

Raising his eyebrows, Montparnasse said, "'Son'? It seems you've already picked out our target."

With a wicked smile, Babet replied, "Indeed I have. I'm sure you've seen him; he's always hanging around the Café Musain. Tall... blonde... I believe his name is Enjolras..."

*   *   *   *   *

Late the next evening, Enjolras left the Café Musain in a bad mood. It had been a stressful night. Not one of his friends had felt like planning a revolution. Joly was yet again convinced he was dying. Bossuet spent the evening trying to convince him that he wasn't. Combeferre had a headache. Marius spent most of the night staring dreamily at the ceiling. Courfeyrac had met a new grisette earlier in the day, and hadn't shown up at all.

Then there was Grantaire...Enjolras grimaced as he remembered the cynic slumped in a chair, reeking of alcohol, and ranting about...what had he been ranting about, anyway? Nothing important, probably, but he had been a distraction. But then again, wasn't he always?

Enjolras sighed and adjusted his hat over his golden hair. What a waste of an evening. At least it was over...

At that moment, four figures materialized out of the shadows. Before he could say a word, one of the four, a huge muscular man, had pinned his arms behind his back, while another, younger than the first, slammed something against his temple. Just before he lost consciousness, he heard a satisfied voice saying, "I told you that Patron-Minette wouldn't fail."

*   *   *   *   *

Montparnasse gazed spitefully at the unconscious student lying on the floor. He especially hated this kind of young man: educated, handsome, and with enough money to clothe himself properly. Then there was the fact that this particular young man looked so noble, even unconscious.

He had been staring at their victim from the moment they brought him to the abandoned house, where they had decided earlier to keep him. They had already searched him for valuables. Montparnasse had also taken the liberty of relieving the student of his stylish red vest, which he decided would look just as nice on himself as on a rich boy. If not nicer.

Just then, the student groaned and stirred. Montparnasse kicked him roughly. "All right, Enjolras, things will go a lot easier for you if you tell where your parents live right now."

The young man opened one eye and asked groggily, "Who are you? And how do you know my name?"

Montparnasse kicked him again. "Fine. I guess we'll have to convince you to talk some other way. Gueulemer, Claquesous, Babet--would you care to help me?"

*   *   *   *   *

For the next two hours, Enjolras was kicked, beaten, and had his life threatened at least a dozen times. Still he refused to speak. Not only did he refuse to speak, he fought back...at least as much as he could with his hands tied.

With a look of disgust, Montparnasse regarded the student. His lip had been split open. Blood was running down his chin. His white shirt was ripped open at the seam, exposing his bruised shoulder. His long golden hair had come loose from its ribbon, obscuring his battered face. One of his blue eyes was swollen shut. And yet, despite his injuries, he continued to glare defiantly at his captors, and remained silent.

"Brilliant, Babet," Claquesous growled. "How are we supposed to become 'rich for months to come' if we don't even know where to send the ransom note?" Suddenly Enjolras spoke up. "You mean you're not police spies?" he asked in a confused voice.

"Don't be an idiot. Do we look like police spies?" Montparnasse growled. "We're holding you for ransom, stupid."

To the surprise of Patron-Minette, their victim laughed bitterly. "My family disowned me years ago! They wouldn't give you a sou for my return!"

Montparnasse froze at these words, but Babet just sighed. "Throw him into the other room. Perhaps his friends will pay for his return. But first..." he flashed a rusty dagger, then plunged it into Enjolras' side.

"What did you do that for?" Gueulemer shouted as the student collapsed against him. "He's no good to us dead!"

"It's not deep enough to kill him," Babet explained, "but it should...improve his behavior. He won't fight back nearly as much next time we have to deal with him." Then he painfully rubbed his shin where Enjolras had kicked him.

Montparnasse continued to stare at the student in a kind of awe.

*   *   *   *   *

Enjolras lay on the cold floor where Gueulemer had left him. He didn't want to move...every inch of his body hurt, and his side burned like fire. His breath came in pained gasps. At least now, they might leave him alone for a little while...

Montparnasse quietly entered the dark room. In one hand he held a cup of water, in the other he held several scraps of cloth. He carefully lifted the semi-conscious boy's head, and poured some of the water down his throat. Then he set about gently bandaging the wound from Babet's knife.

Enjolras gasped as Montparnasse's fingers came in contact with the gash in his side. "Why are you doing this?"

The handsome young criminal finished tying the bandage. He sat back and looked the student in the eye. "Were you telling the truth when you said your parents disowned you?"

"Yes. What do you care?" Enjolras snapped.

"I'm an orphan. Both of my parents are dead," Montparnasse replied. "And yet I think that you're worse off than I am."

Enjolras was thoughtfully silent.

*   *   *   *   *

Eponine Thénardier cautiously approached the group of students standing outside the Café. She still couldn't believe Montparnasse had asked her to do this. Which student should she speak to? Then she recognized Courfeyrac... he was one of Marius' friends, wasn't he? She would much rather speak to Marius, but couldn't find him in the crowd. It was probably just as well; she wanted to make this as brief as possible, lest a gendarme show up.

"Monsieur Courfeyrac?" she asked the young man timidly. He looked down, surprised. Before he could say a word, or pull out some spare change to give to her, she said, "Are you perhaps looking for a Monsieur Enjolras?"

Courfeyrac's eyes lit up. "Do you know where he is?" he asked excitedly, grabbing her by the shoulders.

"Yes...I can take you to him..."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"

"Wait!" a voice cried from the doorway of the Café.

Courfeyrac turned around. "What is it, Grantaire?"

"I'm coming with you!"

"All right, if you think you're sober enough to walk." Courfeyrac turned back to Eponine. "Let's go!"

*   *   *   *   *

An hour later, Enjolras was back at his own flat, where Joly and Combeferre were tending to his wounds.

"You're telling me he walked out of that house with these injuries?" Joly asked incredulously.

Courfeyrac grinned. "He insisted on it. Except he passed out a few steps later. Grantaire carried him in here."

"That's our Enjolras," Combeferre smiled. "He should be back to his old self in a week or two. But right now, I think he could use some rest."

The rest of Les Amis quietly left the room. But it wasn't long after that that Enjolras was awakened by a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he called weakly.

No one answered.

Enjolras sighed, then dragged himself out of the bed. It was probably just Joly, checking to make sure he was resting. He would probably be scolded for getting out of bed to answer the door. Enjolras opened the door, but no one was waiting on the other side. He was about to close it again, when he noticed something...his vest was lying on the ground just outside of the door. Something was pinned to it. He picked up the vest and realized it was a note. Curiously, Enjolras removed the scrap of paper and read:

"Perhaps under different circumstances we might have been friends, maybe even partners. As things are, though, that seems impossible. Still, I have a new respect for you, and won't be bothering you again."

Enjolras didn't need to look at the signature to know whom it was from.

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