1.

Feuilly sits in a small cafe. It is raining outside. He sees a girl in ragged clothes crouching in a corner to keep out of the rain. He goes outside to her. It is Azelma.

Feuilly: Mademoiselle? Would you care to come out of the rain?

Azelma: And where would I go that would allow a street girl like me to be sheltered? And why do you care?

Feuilly: I do not want to see a pretty girl like yourself become ill, street girl or not. Perhas I can buy you something to eat? You look very hungry.

Azelma looks suspiciously at Feuilly who holds his hand out to her.

Feuilly: I can't get you much, I don't have much money myself, but perhaps a bowl of soup might save you one hungry night.

Azelma: And you would do that why?

Feuilly: Because I want to. If you would prefer to stay out in the rain I will--

Azelma: No, no.

She grabs Feuilly's hand and stands. He flashes her a friendly smile and they walk to the cafe. He sits her down at the little table closest to the fire and brings her some soup and a warm drink. She begins to eat greedily. Feuilly laughs slightly.

Azelma: What is that for?

Feuilly: I've never before seen a woman eat like a man.

Azelma: I can fight like a man too.

Feuilly: I will not test that theory.

She looks at him, unsure what to make of his remark. A few moments of silence pass and she continues eating.

Feuilly: May I ask your name?

Azelma: What's yours?

Feuilly: I am Feuilly.

She studies him for a moment and goes back to eating. Feuilly begins to fold a piece of paper. Azelma realizes he doesn't mean to force an answer out of her.

Azelma: Azelma.

Feuilly looks up from the paper, which now looks like a fan.

Azelma: My name. It's Azelma.

Feuilly: It's pretty.

Azelma (absently): Yeah. So what do you do anyway?

Feuilly: I work with my hands.

Azelma: Your father must have too, I suppose.

Feuilly: I don't know.

She notices a change in his actions. His cheerful face has suddenly become shadowed.

Azelma: If you don't know how did you learn? Did your mother find another man?

Feuilly (quietly): I taught myself.

Azelma: And your mother?

Feuilly: I don't know anything of my parents. They left me long ago. I've grown up on these streets since before I can even remember.

Azelma: My parents are still around. Have you heard of Thenardier? His greed put us on the street. But he is my father and I love him dearly. He helps me survive and I help him. It's more than my mother ever did.

Feuilly: Have you any siblings?

Azelma: Yes. A sister, a brother Gavroche and two others.

Feuilly: Gavroche! Ah, now I know that air. It is the one your brother carries with him. He has befriended many of the students that sit here most nights.

Azelma: He has told me a little. I don't see much of him. I never see the other two boys my mother carried.

Feuilly: And your sister?

Azelma: Eponine is a fool! She has fallen in love with a boy who doesn't see her that way. He is in love with another. That Marius is blind.

Feuilly: Ah! So Marius' little tagalong is your sister. I see a resemblance. You have her dark eyes and hair. But you are right, Marius has fallen very hard for another he claims is an angel.

Azelma stands up.

Azelma (angrily): And could not Eponine or I be angels? could we not provide the love and devotion that these richer girls do?

She looks at Feuilly with anger.

Feuilly: You are angels.

Azelma sits down slowly, shocked at the calm serious tone Feuilly has used. There is no mocking in his eyes.

Feuilly: You are strong girls, Azelma. I have seen it in your sister and I see it in you.

Azelma quickly stands again.

Azelma: Thank you Monsieur Feuilly for the food and drink. I am very grateful, but I must be going.

She runs out the door before Feuilly can reply. He follows her and stops her in the middle of the empty street. It is still raining heavily.

Feuilly: What's wrong? Did I say something?

Azelma begins to cry. Feuilly holds her close.

Feuilly: What is the matter, Azelma?

Azelma: I don't want to be strong anymore.

They stand in the street a few minutes more, than move off to the sidewalk under an overhang to keep out of the rain.

Feuilly: Do you need a place to go?

Azelma: No, but thank you.

Feuilly nods, with a look, Azelma believes, that means he knows it is not a safe place. he turns to go back to the cafe.

Azelma: Perhaps another time?

Feuilly turns. He gives her a friendly smile she will never forget.

Feuilly: Yes. But shall we leave out the 'perhaps' and just say another time?

Azelma smiles, almost shyly.

Azelma: Yes. Another time. Goodnight, Feuilly.

Feuilly: Goodnight, angel.

This brings a childish giggle from Azelma. They wave as each turns in an opposite direction. One back to a father she thinks she loves, the other to the friends he will soon die with. As each reaches their destination the rain stops and the stars appear in the clearing. Both make a wish on the same falling star.

2.

Feuilly sits between Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire across from the litle café he was at a few nights before. He doesn't know the topic of discussion, only that the two men with him do not agree. That is a good sign. "The day Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire agree will be the day Grantaire takes charge and 'Jolras takes a drink!" as Combeferre so gracefully puts it. And he is right. Bahorel is a fighter and Jean Prouvaire is a poet. And neither can resist a good arguement.

Bahorel: Hmph. Where's the excitement in writing when you could be doing, eh Feuilly?

Feuilly: You know I do not get involved in your childish discussions.

Jean Prouvaire: How would you know, Bahorel? I don't believe you have the mental capacity to understand the power of words.

Bahorel: Oh no? I don't believe you have the physical capacity to challenge that.

Feuilly: And neither of you have the maturity to get any further in life than you are.

Jean Prouvaire: Is that so? It doesn't look to me like maturity has got you much further ahead of us.

Bahorel: And poetry hasn't either.

Jean Prouvaire: Nor violence.

Bahorel: Ah! But violence gets the attention of those that matter.

Jean Prouvaire: Poetry captures their hearts. What you do makes them angry, what I do makes them understand.

Bahorel: What you do bores them into submission.

Feuilly: Keep the voices low and the fists down Bahorel.

Though this is a friendly arguement, to passersby it may seem a heated battle. Feuilly sees two inspectors heading in their direction. These days inspectors will use any excuse to question anxious workers and students. Bahorel, who tends to talk with his hands, puts them in his pockets and leans back.

Bahorel: Ah, Feuilly. It's all in fun. You know that.

Feuilly: But they don't.

He points to the inspectors.

Bahorel: I see. Well, Prouvaire, you are saved from defeat this discussion.

Jean Prouvaire: I believe you are saved from surrender.

Feuilly: Neither of you will be saved from a night of interrogation if you don't douse the flames.

Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire look at Feuilly and nod. He is right after all. They sit quietly for a moment. Then Bahorel speaks up.

Bahorel: Is there something of interest in that corner there, Feuilly?

Feuilly turns to Bahorel with a questioning look on his face.

Bahorel: You've been glancing there since we sat down.

Feuilly (with a smile): Anything to keep from looking at you, Bahorel.

The inspectors are now passing them. One gives an uninterested glance and both carry on down the street.

Jean Prouvaire: Those two must not know of the secret student/worker mob. Usually they stare.

Bahorel: They know. They just don't care. They probably feel the same as us. I've heard some do.

Jean Prouvaire: Possibly. Now back to this interesting corner. Care to fill us in, Feuilly?

Feuilly: Not particularly.

Bahorel: Come on. We won't tell anyone. Did you see a ghost?

Feuilly (sarcastically): Yes, Bahorel, I saw a ghost.

Jean Prouvaire: Perhaps our Feuilly has caught young Marius' sickness, hmm?

Bahorel: Marius is sick?

This brings on a fit of laughter that Feuilly cannot control.

Jean Prouvaire: If you understood poetry you'd understand my meaning.

Bahorel looks dumbly at Jean Prouvaire, who shakes his head.

Jean Prouvaire: No, you fool. Marius is not sick, he is in love.

Bahorel: Ah yes, yes, of course.

Jean Prouvaire can see Bahorel still doesn't quite fully understand. He turns to Feuilly who is now calming himself.

Feuilly: You're almost right, Prouvaire. But it's not like Marius. It's more of an admiration than love.

Bahorel: Ah, do tell.

Feuilly: All right. I did meet a girl. Three nights ago she was sitting in the rain under that ledge.

Feuilly points to the corner that's been drawing his attention.

Bahorel: If she was under the ledge she wasn't really in the rain, now was she?

Jean Prouvaire reaches behind Feuilly and smacks him in the back of the head.

Jean Prouvaire: Let him tell the story.

Bahorel: All right, I'm sorry. But I will get you back for that, Prouvaire. Go on, Feuilly.

Feuilly: Well, I bought her some soup and had a little conversation. That was about it.

Jean Prouvaire: What did you mean by the admiration?

Feuilly: She's very strong-willed, determined. She's got a wonderful personality from what I could tell. And yet under all that was a scared little girl.

Bahorel: Ah, sounds like Feuilly here has found himself a girl. Perhaps you were right, Prouvaire.

Feuilly: No, it's not like that.

Bahorel: Well, what's it like?

Feuilly: I don't know. I think it's that she reminds me of myself when I was a little boy. Pretending to be strong to stay alive. But she has never found a way out of that as I did. You know by teaching myself and hooking up with you boys.

Jean Prouvaire: So it's more like a sibling? She's the little sister and you want to protect her.

Feuilly: Yes. I just hope to see her. All the pain in her dark eyes when she left... It worried me. It worries me still.

Bahorel: You better be careful, Feuilly. You're starting to sound like our poet here.

Jean Prouvaire: He's right you know. That was beautiful.

All three laugh.

Bahorel: By the way, what was her name?

Feuilly (distantly): Street Angel.

Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire turn to Feuilly in confusion. Feuilly notices the glances, realizes what he's said and smiles.

Feuilly: Her name is Azelma.

Jean Prouvaire: A beautiful name.

Bahorel nods in agreement. The three sit for a moment in silence. Then a vioce calls from down the street.

Bahorel: I believe that is our calling, gentlemen. Courfeyrac is late though.

Jean Prouvaire: No, Bahorel, you just have trouble keeping track of time.

Feuilly shakes his head as all three stand and head towards their friend, Courfeyrac. Just before turning the corner he takes one glance back at the corner. It is empty.

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