Armand Saint-Just paused in his shuffled, hasty walk for a brief moment at the intersection of two deeply-rutted cobblestone streets when he sighted a man clad in rags standing atop a crate at the opposite corner, speaking to a crowd of people around him that grew steadily larger as the young Frenchman watched. The speaker was undoubtedly a Parisian native as he was, tall with dark hair and pale skin with a voice that spoke a trained air of politics, his hands seeming to move about on their own to emphasize his speech. For a moment Armand brought his gaze up, normally fixated on the sidewalk to avoid contact with any of the bustling people around him, to stare, listening to the young man's fiery words from across the street before his _expression darkened in disgust. Tied around the speaker's waist was a red, white, and blue sash. His preachings were about that of France , of the people, and of freedom. Mingling through the crowd around him and standing on the surrounding streets were other men like himself, all of them very much near Armand's age, who were handing out colorful fliers and wearing sashes as well. Revolutionaries, Armand knew it well. Probably the ABC students. They were a fiery group, Armand knew from both watching them and the circulating gossip of their actions, headed by the die-hard Enjolras.

"A flier, monsieur," one of the students approached Armand to hand him a slip of printed paper. "In support of Robespierre and the Republic." Nodding curtly, Armand kept his eyes averted and took the flier, saying nothing to betray his reluctance. He stepped to the sidewalk's edge, letting his eyes rove over the scene as Enjolras's voice drummed in his ears.

"France has for too long been the playground of the aristocrats!" he was shouting as any pastor would, his bold words rewarded by occasional cheers of agreement from the crowd. "What have we? Rotten food! Filthy water! No money! Our children dying in the streets from disease! Look at the upper class! They dine and live at our expense, wrapped up in their fancy clothes and rich homes while we starve at their very feet! I ask you, fellow Citizens, do we deserve this? Are we not human, that we may live with the same rights and treatment as other decent men? Are we not the descendants of the very peasants who fought and spilled their blood to defend France from those who would conquer us? Are we not stirring with the awakening of knowledge, that we may rise up and know the liberty that all life has to offer?! The Revolution is already in us, I tell you. It is in our heads with the ability to think...our hands with the ability to raise a fist...our hearts with the ability to feel... It is time for us to take from the rich what is rightfully ours! Free France from the aristocrats! Long live the Republic!"

Armand winced at the wail of cheers and applause that rose up for the powerful speech, feeling a particularly familiar stab of pain to his conscience. Such convincing words, spoken with total and utter faith. Enjolras believed what he preached. Armand had once believed it himself. He had been caught up in the fires of Revolution as many others of his generation had, blinded by dreams of equality among men and freedom from oppression. A noble goal for noble hearts, but what Enjolras didn't see was the Terror. That was what had finally turned Armand away, when the blood began to spill... His attention was jerked back to the scene as another voice, a deeper voice, rang out over the square.

A man, many years older, whom Armand didn't know dove headlong across the street from where he'd been standing idly by and shoved his way through the crowd of peasants, silencing them all as he leaped up onto the crate and stood boldly beside the Revolutionary speaker, holding a similar flier in his clenched fist. "And I ask you, citizens of France!" he bellowed, his powerful voice holding all within hearing distance's attention as captive as the previous had. Armand strained his neck trying to get a good look from his perch, the fact not escaping his notice that the well-trained enunciation of the stranger was that of an aristocrat. Enjolras knew it, too. "I ask you: who is to pay for your grievances? The aristocracy? Very well, they may! But what about their families? Their wives and children who have nothing to do with any of this?"

"And who are you to defend them?" Enjolras growled, grabbing the man's arm in a fierce hold. He was strong to be so young.

"An observer, monsieur," the stranger retorted, jerking his arm back. "An observer who has seen the results of what you call your revolution. Not two weeks past I saw the public guillotining of an aristocrat and his family. An aristocrat who in no way, shape, or form had anything to do with your troubles! Robespierre and your beloved Republic had them executed simply because he was an aristocrat. Nor was it only him!" The stranger turned towards the crowd, his words striking a sensitive chord by the expressions on their faces, succeeding in only drawing hateful glared from them. But the stranger went on in strong French words. "Two children, no older than five or six, were executed that day! What crime had they done? Could two children possibly in the five or six years of their life do enough damage to make them deserve an end at the guillotine? And his wife...a woman who worked her fingers to the bone helping the poor and giving money to charities was executed as well! Their blood spilled onto the streets of Paris, and for what? Has any of the deaths so far solved your problems?" The man's eyes shone with a fiery passion, an anger rarely seen in Armand's eyes reflecting as well, his mind thrown back to his own thoughts of his private war against the Revolution. The stranger then glared back at Enjolras, who returned the feeling of mutual hatred.

"They were all bourgeois pigs," the ABC student argued. "They draw their money from our taxes and misfortunes! How many people have died from starvation as a result of their squandering?"

"How many more people will have to die before you see that this is pointless?!" the man exasperated. Neither he or the speaker were giving any attention to the crowd. They glared only at each other, still holding the crowd enthralled. "There are ways to have Revolutions without shedding blood!"

"The King will not hear us!" Enjolras yelled. "He sends his soldiers to cut us down in the streets like dogs if we raise the slightest hand against him!"

"So instead you kill his nobility so that he will declare an all-out war upon you?!"

"You talk of this as though you are outside of it, monsieur," Enjolras said, suddenly quiet, with a higher confidence, no longer concerned in the slightest over the stranger's show of devotion. "You're not of the Revolution...are you of the royal guard? Nobility, perhaps? Your speech betrays you, monsieur." He grinned, knowing he had won as a sharp whistle echoed over the stone streets. "Treason! Traitor!"

Armand knew the moment he heard the whistle it was over for the stranger. One of the students previously lingering at Enjolras's flank had slipped away during the argument, returning with a handful of Revolutionary guards who came marching toward the crowd. Too late did the stranger hear the drawing of rapiers from their sheaths. Met with little resistance and much support from the won-over crowd, they dragged him off to a certain fate: that of the guillotine. Enjolras resumed his speech then, a new fire rekindled in his eyes at the recent victory. Letting his own gaze fall once again to the ground with a heavy sigh, Armand crumpled the flier in his hands, letting it fall to the ground as he turned to get away from there as quickly as possible. What had happened to the country he loved, the place for so long he called home? He wished Marguerite was there to console with, like they always had, growing up together. Scenes like these were getting less and less frequent, as more and more of those who said the slightest word against Robespierre and his regime were arrested. Each time they grew more and more violent. Armand wiped his eyes as he walked swiftly away, a few books shoved possessively under one arm. He could barely wait for Percy to arrive...

Armand came shuffling down the avenue in his own good time, eyes still fixed modestly on the ground, glancing up only once the sound of the bustling cafe talk reached his ears, clutching his precious books to his chest like a protective sheild. Already a young man on the timid side and not the most intelligent in the world, the events of what had just happening lingering in his mind refreshed an old fear that had constantly haunted him every since he'd pledged allegiance to Percy and the Pimpernel's cause: discovery. French spies were everywhere. As much as he admired and trusted in Percival no less than a faithful dog, the Reign of Terror lived up to its name by instilling a fear in him that one day the League would be found out. All its members led to execution. The thought sent a shudder down Armand's spine, and reaching up to run a hand back through his hair and straightening his appearance, he adopted a bright, eager smile as he strode into the Palais Royal, shoving his paranoia back into darkness the best he could. It didn't take him but a moment to spot Andrew. "Admiring everything but the food, Citizen?" he chided as he approached behind Andrew, following his gaze to the two young lovelies who didn't seem at all discouraged by the attention.

Armand winced at Andrew's unexpected shout, glancing about sharply at any unwelcome glances his expression may have drawn, but ultimately grinned a little smugly at the mistaken identity. Thought he was Percy, did he? Fancy! But Armand barely had time to relish the feeling of importance before Andrew took off, and nearly stumbling over his own feet to catch up, Armand followed. "I'm flattered," he grumbled under his breath so only his fellow League member could hear. "A thousand and one points of interest in Paris and you choose me." They rounded the hedges into the protective solitude of the street beyond the Palais Royal and Armand felt a wave of relief, able to relax knowing there were not so many prying eyes. The French Revolutionaries may have spilled their entire plans by talking them away, but they also listened. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, should that be possible in this day and age. "Voting," he scoffed, muttered a curse at Robespierre. "Indeed." But the serious tone in Andrew's voice calmed the sarcastic mood of the younger man, who took the note to see for his own self whether the dreaded news was true. "The trial?!" he stared wide-eyed, looking up to Andrew, lost. "But they can't! They..." Of course they could. Scoundrels. It was plain which way the voting would go, as well. Under Robespierre, everyone followed his vote or else they wound up like Danton and all the rest. Calming himself Armand stood up to his full height, which wasn't much compared to his companion. "I have missed nothing," he insisted in a harsh whisper. "If Percy hasn't responded he's had good reason for it. He'll come through, Andrew. He always does."

Armand nodded, a shadow overtaking his expression to darken his features until they turned down to the ground. Three years since the Revolution had begun. To the young man it seemed like it had been going on forever. Three whole years... Sighing at the thought that three years ago no one had ever heard of this madness, not one of the many aristocrats beheaded under the guillotine had the remotest thought of their own execution, and he had still been planning on going to university. The thought made him clench the books under his arm tighter. He'd wanted to study and remain close to Marguerite...but no. Bastille Day happened, and he'd had to get interested in politics. Sometimes he wondered where his head was. "You will, Andrew," he muttered darkly, running a hand through his hair kept tied back. "You will." Lifting his head after speaking � and secretly hoping the din of the street was enough to cover his words � when Andrew mentioned dinner. He was a little hungry, and was on the verge of saying so, when Andrew's next bit of gossip made the young man lose his appetite entirely. "Mirabeau?" he echoed with unhidden wonder, a flood of red-hot anger sweeping over his skin. At who or what exactly, there were many things. He shook his head to push it away. "Don't speculate," he warned only half-jokingly. "There are too many possibilities."

Armand laughed, albeit nervously. "If I had my way as well." It was just as he'd try to tell Marguerite: he supported the Revolution, not the Terror. Bloodless revolutions had happened before. Why, if Armand wasn't mistaken, England had their own Glorious revolution back in 1688 with minimal if any bloodshed. It was far from being any kind of game. "I think it's all just as well he fell in love," the young man nodded stoutly. "Marguerite needed someone. And Chauvelin�" Suddenly it seemed like a better idea not to drag up what lay buried in the past. His appetite returned. "I haven't much money," he confessed, glancing back down to the sidewalk. "Whichever you prefer."

The young man glanced up, ever that more appreciative that men like Andrew � let alone Percy � inhabited the world, especially in this time of crisis. He shuddered to think where the world would be without them. "No one is ever prepared for anything like that," he pointed out with a laugh, always willing to discuss his two favorite inhabitants of this world: Marguerite and Percy. Percy was what Armand wanted to be; his idol; perfect in every way he could think of; strong, brave, and clever. Marguerite was his only family, the intellectual, mature one who had gotten them through all those awkward periods after their parents had died. He sighed wistfully at Andrew's last suggestion, though it took nearly all he had to hold back a laugh. What woman would ever show such devotion for him? He certainly wasn't rich like Andrew and the rest of the League...by far not as handsome and elegant as Percy...not as intelligent as Marguerite... Still, a man could dream. "Every day of my life."

Armand gazed up at Andrew's face as he spoke of the fantastic love he so desired, a sort of wistful admiration dawning over the youth's features as he thought back on his own dreams of romance and heroism. Dreams they all shared. Hearing Andrew finish his storybook plot he couldn't help but suppress a childish giggle. "Sounds lovely," he commented teasingly as they reached the restaurant. "Thank you for the meal, Andrew. I'd like to hear more of that foolish chatter, or whatever you call it. And who knows? At this rate I think it's plausible to say anything can happen." He smiled, hopeful and genuine, at his companion, mood suddenly bettered by the delicious, rich scents and aromas floating around Marchand's atmosphere. Indeed, there was no better place than a French cafe to discuss such things as love, life, and whatever else may come to mind.

Armand blushed and laughed boyishly at the teasing of Hastings, seeing absolutely nothing wrong to believe in miracles. Why not, when Percy performed them on a regular basis? Following Andrew into the cafe, the young man looked around in wonder and not the least bit of intimidation at such a rich, fantastic place. When he sat down opposite his companion at the selected table he did so with a tentative nervousness, unable to help feeling out of place with his commoner status. He could have never pictured himself dining in such a place before. So much for Andrew's denunciation of miracles. Finally feeling at ease, he sat back comfortably, only to become nervously tense again at Andrew's order. "Uhh," he stammered, drumming his fingers against the tabletop when attention was suddenly upon him. "Rabbit sounds wonderful...whatever you're having, Citizen Ffoulkes." The formalities rather strange to him, Armand waited until the waiter had gone before leaning closer to the table and saying in a hushed, conspiratorial voice: "Be careful how you speak of Robespierre, Andrew. I've seen men executed for less."

Armand winced at Andrew's slamming fist on the table, his gaze slowly turning to look around with even more unease as most eyes turned upon them. He felt as though they were boring into his mind, able to see his conscience guilty with treason, just waiting for his slightest movement to pounce and drag him off to the nearest prison. Instead, he glanced back at Andrew, slightly hunched down in his seat and voice quivering as he answered. "Y-y-yes..." And blast Andrew for his enthusiasm. The praise and mentioning of Marguerite brought the young man out of his timid shell, and he smiled, however briefly, to return his companion's grin. Taking up his own glass of wine alongside Andrew's, caught on by the contagious excitement and not so much the fact it was a ruse, Armand heartily endorsed the toast to the new French Republic and downed his glass as though it were water, quickly paying for it with a rough cough, unaccustomed to such fine drink. "It will," he said as well to the footnote unheard by all others. "I just pray that day comes quick�" He was cut off, halted by a hiccup.

Armand shook his head with a small wave, dismissing the books as though they were nothing. "Don't be sorry, Andrew. You probably did just save me from a much worse fate." Nevertheless he looked on with staunch admiration at Andrew's efforts to clean up the pages bound in leather, unable to conceal a slight smirk that grew from it. "Merci," he said at length, accepting the book back once it had been given a mediocre cleaning. Still good, at least, for the cost of Andrew's handkerchief. By chance, his favorite one, as well. Thomas Paine. He tucked it securely under one arm, bringing his gaze back up when his companion mentioned Marguerite, preferring to not talk about the aptly-called hooligans. "She does?" he echoed in fond memories, having missed his sister desperately in recent times. So often he'd assured her she needn't worry, but that alone wasn't enough to deter her womanly anxieties. It brought a gentle smile to his features: a smile that was quickly doused the moment Andrew paled. "I...I don't think so," he sputtered, trying to think back on whether or not he'd let the information slip at one time or another. Mon dieu... "But even if they don't, it wouldn't be hard for them to find out. Enjolras and Marius both have street urchins spying for them all over the city." He looked up to Andrew worriedly, ready and eager to go back if it meant meeting up with Percy. "C'mon, then."

Armand shrugged helplessly. "I don't know...because nobody suspects children?" Oddly enough, it was a tactic that worked well. Armand was familiar with a few of the more common ones that frequently made themselves known around Enjolras and Marius's demonstrations � most notably Gavroche � but there were others. Too many. Nodding in ascension with Andrew's prayer, Armand was only too eager to make for the dwelling that was their destination, if only to get away from the feeling of vulnerability on the street. That feeling turned instead to a jolt of fear when the shadow just beyond the front door spoke to them. Freezing in his place, only too glad to let Andrew handle the proceedings, his eyes remained fixed upon the letter once it was passed into Andrew's hand. He didn't have to be told twice to undo the door's lock and slip inside. "Percy!" he whispered excitedly once they were safe inside...for the time being. Taking heed of the older man's warnings, the youth set his book down upon the nearest space available, peering over Andrew's shoulder as he unsealed the note. "The window over there has a fairly good view of the street..." was the only solution he could offer, wringing his hands together. "What does it say?"