Disclaimer: Hugo's characters, not mine. I'm just playing with them, and I promise to put them back when I'm done.

Author's Note: Blame the Marie-Suzette generator on Les Miserables Fan Fiction Index. It's all their fault, I tell you!

Book Four and Seven-Fourths:

Marie-Suzette

Cherie de La Fayette sauntered into the café, seemingly oblivious to the heated glances thrown her way. Her friend, Eponine, had promised to meet her there at half-past ten so that they could catch up on old times. Seeing as there didn't seem to be anywhere to sit in the main part of the café, she walked over towards a door leading (presumably) to another wing. As her dainty fingers grabbed hold of the dim, dirty doorknob, a hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice hissed at her. She stared at the man who was restraining her.

"I am meeting my friend, Eponine, here, monsieur, and I would appreciate if you would let go of my arm." She leveled her icy eyes of devastating sapphire at him and bestowed a glare as cold on the moon on the limb that hindered her progress. When the stranger caught sight of her full, pouty lips and porcelain-white skin, unmarred by neither a scrape of ash or a smudge of grime, his grip loosened and his mouth fell open. She haughtily pressed the door open and swept by him, her waves of copper hair cascading down her shoulders.

Entering the dim room, she immediately noticed the overpowering odor of cheap liquor. It appeared to be coming mainly from one man, who was trying his hardest to pass out before noon. Her perfect brown furrowed in concern even she, who had been raised by a band of gypsies that had taken care of her after her birth parents had left her alone by the side of the road, had better sense than to drink oneself into a stupor this early in the morning. The man was obviously attempting to dig himself an early grave. She strode over to him, not noticing that everyone else in the room had stopped to stare at her.

"Monsieur? Monsieur!" She shook him to get his attention. He slowly regained some measure of coherency, and looked at her with alcohol-glassed eyes. She gently took the bottle from between his fingertips.

"You shouldn't drink like this. Doing something so harmful to yourself only harms those around you," she explained in her gentlest voice. The man stared at her like she were a madwoman, before slowly nodding his head in agreement. He sat up straighter, looking at those around him, seemingly recognizing them for the first time. A hush fell over the room as he stared at the bottle the young mademoiselle held.

"You're absolutely right," he stated, staring at her with wide eyes. He slowly got up off the floor, and brushed himself off. "Why am I doing this? I solemnly swear, from now on I will drink no more."

Cherie beamed at him, showing off all of her perfect teeth, as he went to hug a stunned, young, blonde man. The room exploded into a myriad of cheers, whistles, and cat-calls. The blonde, who was now being held in a tight embrace and looked like he could use some air, looked over at Cherie with something mirroring awe. She straightened her back, and remembering her reason for being at this café in the first place, sat down at a small, unoccupied table. A young man ('with a horrible sense of style' she murmured to herself, before realizing the unkindness of her thought) walked over to her, carrying a bottle of fine wine.

"I'm very impressed, mademoiselle. We've all been trying to get him to quit drinking for years, but I guess it just took the right incentive." He handed her the bottle, and a delicate wine-glass, coloring with embarrassment. "I'm very thankful. This is for you." She smiled at him, and he blushed more.

"Would you like some?" she asked, reading the label on the bottle. "It's a very good year." He blushed again, and mumbled a Greek phrase under his breath, but sat down anyway. She blinked, before responding in the same tongue.

"You speak Greek, also?" he questioned, admiration and respect in his eyes.

"Yes, and I speak Italian, Latin, Hebrew, English, and Spanish, as well." She smiled at him, drinking his expression of astonishment.

"You are truly a gifted scholar," he told her. "I only know four, and that is for reading the four poets."

"When I was little," she explained, "My parents and I traveled all over the continent with a gypsy camp. Many of our group were from different parts of the world, and I picked up the languages rather quickly." She finished her glass of wine, before continuing, "My mother used to sing to me in Romani before she died, but sadly I cannot remember very much of it." Her oft-blushing partner patted her hand gently.

"I am sorry for your loss, mademoiselle," he told her earnestly, his face darkened with sorrow. She brushed away her few stray tears, before grasping his hand gently.

"Thank you."

Author's Note: Now, what's scary about this story- it wasn't actually that hard to write.

I suddenly feel dirty. Eeeugh.

Anyway, reviews or flames are accepted (can you tell I'm desperate for feedback?). Be kind.