In 1823, Arlette Boulanger became a 13-year-old orphan. Her parents' death left both her and her three-year-old brother displaced, forced to live on the streets without a home. At the time, it had seemed Arlette's brother was lucky; he was young enough to be taken away by the state, and was placed in an orphanage. However, as 1826 unfolded, it became clear that Arlette was, in fact, the luckier of the two orphaned children.

One bitter, blustery March morning, Arlette sat on the hard cobblestones, curled in a ball, her threadbare clothes proving nothing but a meager barrier from the early-morning frigidness. The rest of Poitiers had just started to awaken, but Arlette had been awake for hours, unable to sleep since the first cock crow; it was her birthday, after all, and despite her impoverished situation, she was anxious to see what the day held. As the sun slowly began to rise, the Poitieriens started to exit their homes. A few of the wealthier men got into carriages and sped off, the wooden wheels of the carriages splaying dirt and unmelted snow into the air, some of which landed on Arlette's petite frame. Standing, the small girl brushed the cold flakes from her clothes and began to walk toward la cathédrale, where she knew she could at least get a scrap of bread from the kindly sisters of the convent. Though she had grown accustomed to her new-found life, before her parents death, she had lived quite the opposite.

Jacques and Gabrielle Boulanger were two loving parents, who ran a small boulangerie in the heart of Poitiers. The store didn't bring in much money, but the family of four was always able to afford the finer things in life. The children always got a few sweets on le jour de Saint Nicolas, and even a few small, wooden toys. Their clothes were never tattered, their shoes always shined, and their hair always combed. They were never too cold, nor too warm, and always knew that they were loved. Jacques was known around town; the man was tall and skinny, with long, light hair and electric blue eyes. Gabrielle's appearance was the antithesis of her husband; she was short, plump, had hazel eyes, and her chocolate hair, which was always pulled back into a bun, reached just past her shoulders. Arlette's brother had taken his small, light frame and hair from their father, though his eye color was completely Gabrielle's. Arlette, on the other hand, had her father's slender build and eye color, while retaining her mother's dark hair. Both children had inherited their father's cheerful disposition.

Arlette shivered as she walked from la cathédrale, carrying the crust of bread Mother Superior had given her. The temperature seemed to drop with every step the girl took, and as she turned her head to the sky, a tiny white flake landed on her cheek. She sighed as yet another brushed her face. It used to be that she loved snow; now, without her family, it was just a reminder of her loss. Arlette's gaze fell to the ground, and she watched her feet as she walked to a tiny stone bench near the back of the church. She sat and stared blankly as the snow fell, slowly eating her gifted bread.

"My dear, why are you sitting out here in the cold?" an older voice questioned. Arlette turned her head toward the man, regarding him with critical eyes. He was in his thirties, but his longer black hair had a thick streak of gray running through it. His chin was scruffy with the beginnings of a dark beard. His nose was rather large, which balanced out his rather small mouth and small, almond-shaped eyes. He was dressed like a member of the bourgeois; his high-waisted pants were brown, his vest red, under which he wore a white collared shirt, and his long coat was chocolate-colored. "Mademoiselle, why are you eating here in the snow?" he repeated.

Her large, crystal eyes met his dark ones for a moment before she looked away. "I have nowhere else to go, Monsieur."

"Surely you have family?" He sat down on the bench beside Arlette.

"No, Monsieur. My parents, they are dead." She glanced at her shoes, awaiting the usual response: a sou or two, an apology, and then the stranger would be gone.

The dark-haired man did none of the usual. "You poor mademoiselle," he began. There was a long pause before he continued. "Would you like to warm yourself and have a decent meal? My apartment is but a few short steps from here, if you would like to follow me, that is."

Arlette stared at the older man. "Kind monsieur, I could not accept your offer."

"But why not, Child?"

"Monsieur offers me warmth and a meal, but I have nothing to pay him."

At this, he chuckled. "Dear Mademoiselle, I do not expect payment. You're cold. Providing you with what you need would be payment enough."

Arlette thought for a moment. "If Monsieur is sure he would not mind," she trailed off pensively.

"Of course I would not mind! Come, Mademoiselle. A roaring fire and a warm meal await you." Arlette stood, and before she took a step, the older man's coat was around her shoulders. At her protest, he smiled. "No, Mademoiselle. You are cold. Keep your protests for another time."

Arlette stared at him. "Thank you, Monsieur." After a moment, she spoke again. "If I may ask, what is Monsieur's name?"

"Edouard Girard," he answered kindly. "Et vous?"

She drew the cost closer to her and said: "Arlette Boulanger, Monsieur Girard."

Arlette rubbed her arm nervously, awaiting the response to her knock on the intricate wooden door. It was months after she had first met Monsieur Girard, and already, she had changed. Her long, dark hair was glossy, pulled back by a gold ribbon. She no longer wore the worn calico dress, her wardrobe was paid for by the generous Monsieur Girard, with whom she had been residing. The kind monsieur lived, as a matter of fact, just down the hallway from the door she stood in front of. She was about to turn from the door when she heard the clicking of a lock from the other side. The door opened, revealing a younger bourgeois man, around Arlette's age, with wavy auburn hair and eyes the color of cold sapphire. It was clear this young man had a strong dislike of something, his hard expression and icy stare conveyed his anger.

When he didn't speak, Arlette cleared her throat nervously. "Bonjour, Monsieur. I, uh, live with Monsieur Girard down the hall," she began, pointing to the door of the apartment she shared with her caretaker. The young man, however, was not interested, and stood, staring, at her. "And I was just wondering if you, or your parents, had a spare pen and bottle of ink I could borrow. My pen broke, and I seem to have run out of ink in the process."

He continued to stare at her for what seemed like minutes, his gaze cold and analytical. Finally, he stood aside. "Come in." He disappeared into the apartment as Arlette crossed the threshold, leaving the door open. The entryway was rather large; a few wooden chairs sat facing an old stone fireplace, blackened from the hard Poitiers winters. A small desk sat in the far corner, and it was this that the young man was rifling through. Arlette did not move from the doorway, but she watched him curiously. It took him mere minutes to find what he was looking for, and he returned, pen and ink in hand.

Arlette looked at the writing utensil as he handed it to her. Golden and ornate, it was clearly expensive. "Monsieur...?" she questioned tentatively, beginning to ask him if he had a different pen she could borrow. When he looked at her, icy eyes clouded in question, she decided against it. "I'll return it as soon as I'm finished."

After a second of what Arlette perceived as anger, he replied. "Don't worry about it. We have many pens and ink is easy to come by."

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur." She walked out of the room nervously, back to Girard's apartment.

Girard had gone away for the day, to Limoges on business, but had left her with specific instructions: write to the orphanage in which her brother lived. The older bourgeois had promised her that he would get her brother back. With the gilded pen in hand, Arlette sat at the writing desk and dipped into the inkwell.

Fifteen minutes later, she put the pen down and wiped off the tip. Her letter completed, she allowed the ink to dry a bit before folding it and sealing and pressing it with crimson wax and the Girard family crest, placing it on the table for Monsieur Girard to deliver it when he returned. Arlette stood and stretched, looking at the list of things her caretaker had left for her to do in his absence.

Errands, Arlette thought, gathering her purse and a few francs and reading the list of things she had to do. Pick up Monsieur Girard's clothes from the tailleur, buy a loaf of bread and confiture for dinner, a bottle of ink.

Girard returned that night, and the next day, he delivered the letter to the orphanage. When he returned, he shook his head.

Arlette stared at Monsieur Girard. "Pardon?"

"Your brother was adopted a few months ago. Madame Lafaite said she thought the man's name was Jondrette. I'm sorry, ma chérie."

Arlette continued to stare at Monsieur Girard in disbelief. Never had she imagined that once the opportunity arose, she would not be reunited with her brother. In her mind, it had been completely reasonable, that, after a year, her brother would not be adopted by some hopefully kind and loving family. However, now that she was faced with the very situation that had been impossible not three minutes ago, she saw the fallacy in her logic: her brother was pleasant, and he was strong, naturally, someone had wanted him.

"If Mademoiselle would like, I could try to locate Monsieur Jondrette," Girard suggested.

Arlette considered this. Girard was well connected. No doubt, he would be able to find this Jondrette and reunite her with her brother. But at what cost? With all luck, the Jondrette family was well off. It was quite possible that her brother was happy-happier than what he could be with her. Granted she had no idea of the situation he was in, but the possibility always existed that he had a better life. Could she tear him away from that?

"Non, merci. That isn't necessary, but I do appreciate the thought."

Girard nodded. "Very well. The offer is always there." He turned away and busied himself at his desk for a moment, before turning back to her. "Oh! Arlette, I almost forgot. I came across Monsieur Louvier in the stairs. You know him, don't you? He, his wife, and their son live just down the hall." Arlette nodded, remembering the piercing blue eyes of the youngest Louvier. "He invited us to dine with them tonight. I accepted. I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head. "No. Not at all."

Hours later, Edouard Girard and Arlette stood in front of the Louvier's door. Arlette played with the skirt of her alizarin and gold dress nervously. She had no idea why she was nervous, but she had an idea it had something to do with the boy's hauntingly cold blue orbs. Girard knocked, and, after a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a stout man in his early thirties. His hair was the color of fresh wheat, his eyes, the color of sand.

"Edouard!" he greeted ebulliently. "This must be the girl you saved from the gutter."

"Now, André, that's not exactly how I would-"

Monsieur Louvier cut off the end of Girard's sentence. "Come in, come in!" He stepped aside and allowed the two into the salon, where a blonde-haired woman sat beside her son. "Estelle, this is Monsieur Edouard Girard and his pauper daughter..." he trailed off, unsure of himself.

"Arlette Boulanger." She introduced herself quickly, before Girard could speak. The blue eyed boy's eyebrows flashed upward quickly, surprised by her quick tongue.

"Arlette, of course." He smiled widely. "Edouard, Mademoiselle... Boulanger, was it?" She nodded curtly. "This is my wife, Estelle, and our son, Enjolras."

Estelle grinned, standing. "Enchantée."

Enjolras stood, extending a hand to Girard. "Good evening, Monsieur." He nodded to Arlette.

"We can make small talk over dinner." Monsieur Louvier ushered them into the dining room. "Come on, let's eat!"

Girard and Arlette followed the Louviers into the next room, where a large, rectangular, oak table was set for five. Candles adorned the two ends of the table. In the center, a large dish of chicken steamed pleasantly. Monsieur Louvier took his place at the head of the table; Enjolras sat to his right, with Madame Louvier beside him. Arlette sat across from Enjolras, Girard to her right, across from Madame Louvier.

"You know, Edouard," Monsieur Louvier began after everyone was served. "It's strange. We've been neighbors and, honestly, I never saw you before you brought home your little gutter-girl."

"Father!" Enjolras reprimanded softly.

Monsieur Louvier continued, either not hearing or ignoring his son. "I must admit: when I heard you adopted this girl from poverty, I was a bit concerned. Poor people have no place in our society-or society in general. I wasn't sure how she would acclimate herself to a lifestyle so different than her own."

Enjolras stood up sharply, throwing his napkin onto the table.

"Enjolras!" his mother scolded pointedly.

"Forgive me, Mother," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "But I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. May I go outside?"

"Oh, go if you must. I wish you would stay, though, we have guests."

"They are more than welcome to join me," the blond-haired boy stated bitterly.

Arlette sat through the rest of dinner, unspeaking, listening to Monsieur Louvier speak, complaining about his job as a lawyer, the king, the poor, and seemingly everything else in the world. It's no wonder his son is bitter, she thought during dessert. He seems a miserable man.

She endured his comments, however, so as not to seem rude; and when Madame Louvier told her where to find Enjolras and sent her off with a plate of chicken and a piece of cake, she practically jumped out of her chair at the opportunity to get out of the room.

Enjolras was exactly where his mother said he would be: Le Jardin des Plantes. It was there, among the flowers and trees, that the blue-eyed boy collected himself. He sat among the lilies and roses, looking very much like a brooding statue of Apollo-his blond hair and slender, yet muscular, build reminded Arlette a great deal of the Greek god of the sun.

"Enjolras?" Arlette began softly, so as not to surprise the young man. He didn't respond. "Your mother said I'd find you here." When no reply came, she continued. "She sent the rest of your dinner." He didn't move. "I'll just leave it here, then. Good night." She sat the plate of food next to him on the bench and turned away.

"I'm sorry for how my father acted," he said, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

Arlette shrugged. "It's fine. Honestly. He just suffers from the typical bourgeois opinion of poor people."

"It's not fine! He was out of line." Enjolras stood and walked to her. "He shouldn't have said those things."

"Monsieur Louvier, I-"

"Enjolras. Just Enjolras."

"Enjolras," she said pensively, allowing his name to linger on her lips for a moment before continuing. "I lived on the streets for almost three years. I've heard much worse. Your father was merely stating his opinion. In my opinion, everyone is entitled to his or her own thoughts, even if I don't personally agree with it."

Enjolras's eyes lit up. "You really believe that?"

She nodded sheepishly. "Monsieur Girard is a Bonapartist." She paused. "But, personally, I prefer a more... Greek approach to government."

"Democracy?" His tone was incredulous, but his sapphire orbs were alight with excitement that extended to his lips.

"Democracy," she repeated, returning his smile.

Enjolras sat back down on the bench, moving the plate so that Arlette could sit beside him. As he ate what his mother had sent along, the two talked.

"It's rare to find someone that speaks their mind so openly," Enjolras noted. "Especially a woman."

"Monsieur Girard says I come from a rare cast."

"Clearly. I believe that no matter what gender, a person should speak his mind."

Unsure of what to say, Arlette merely smiled. The silence settled around the two, making the situation awkward. Arlette was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. How the fabric of his trousers brushed against her skirt as she shifted her weight to recross her ankles. How, when he took a bite of the chicken his mother had prepared, he elbowed her slightly in the ribs.

"If Girard is a Buonapartist, then how did you come to respect the free republic?" Enjolras questioned suddenly, accenting the 'u' in Bonaparte like the royalists of the state.

"What did Bonaparte do for the poor?" she retorted. "When you've spent time living off the charity of others, you tend to reject those who do nothing to help you survive."

"If you'll permit me to play the Devil's advocate?" Arlette motioned him to continue. "The Napoleonic Code helped the poor. It forbade privileges based on birthright."

"I'm not a man," she stated simply. "Therefore, I am lower in class than a three-year-old boy. The law says that I am incapable, therefore no one could help me, even if they tried."

Enjolras nodded, processing her words. "So you turned to democracy?"

"In America, they offer Poor Houses. In Ancient Greece, even the poor had their own homes, their own goats for milk and food. In France, the poor have the streets."

Again, silence enveloped them. Arlette did not look at Enjolras, but she could tell he was finished eating; he had stopped elbowing her. She sighed softly to herself, listening to the crickets singing in the garden. It wasn't too late, and the fireflies had just began their nightly rounds.

Enjolras broke the silence once more. "I thank you for bringing me this." He motioned to the plate. "We should probably head back. It's getting late." He waited for Arlette to stand with him before beginning to walk out of the garden.

Arlette shut the door to the apartment softly, hoping Girard was either not home or not paying attention. She had no such luck, however.

"Ma chérie, I was getting worried about you!" Girard greeted, smiling playfully at her. "How was your date with Monsieur Enjolras?"

"It was not a date!" Arlette protested, feeling her face grow warm. "We were discussing the political values of the press and the written word!"

He chortled. "I'm quite sure."

Arlette's face grew even hotter. "And then... I told him about Paris."

"Oh?"

It had been almost a year since they had met the opinionated Louvier family and their son, the godlike Enjolras. Since then, Arlette and Enjolras had grown exceedingly close friends. Madame Louvier confided in Girard that it was rare for Enjolras to be so close with someone, let alone a girl. The blond boy was, while not introversive, a bit of a loner, consuming himself with the study of politics. He had but few friends, and those he had were kept close to his heart.

"He took it rather well, considering... well, considering." Arlette plopped herself onto the settee beside Girard. "He was upset, though, that I waited this long to tell him."

"We leave in three days. Why did you wait this long?"

Because then it would be real, she thought silently. And I wasn't ready for that.