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It was a squad of criminals which picked him up on Wednesday. As soon as they found Enjolras on the street, they knocked him unconscious. Before blackness consumed him, however, he felt them rummaging in his waistcoat pockets.
Enjolras repeated this information in his throbbing head before he opened his eyes, and still made no sense from it. He was in some sort of cellar with a good number of men waiting patiently. He noted that they had taken his waistcoat and his boots, for all they were worth.
"Your name's Enjolras?"
Enjolras nodded, and stood up steadily.
"And now I leave," he said, at least trying to get away from these people, though it seemed that it was their intention that he stay.
"I don't think you'll be going any time soon."
One man forced him down and tied his wrists and waist tightly to a wine rack. He then put Enjolras into a kneeling position and tied his bare ankles to it. Then he blindfolded Enjolras, threatening to beat the hell out of him if he talked.
"Hmm... a pretty boy," somebody muttered, stroking Enjolras' cheek.
"Don't touch me..." Enjolras started, and reeled under a blow to the nape of his neck.
"We weren't kidding. Speak only when you're spoken to. Now tell me this: You know somebody named Combeferre?"
Enjolras nodded, still recovering from the blow. He wished there was some way to have eye contact with whoever was talking to him.
"With whom am I speaking with?" he whispered.
"A little louder." Somebody pulled his head up roughly.
"With whom am I speaking with?" Enjolras repeated.
"We're the Patron-Minette," a voice growled beside his ear. "You've been wronging us, haven't you?"
"I didn't..." Enjolras gasped as a boot connected with his stomach.
"Don't lie. Montparnasse saw you. Let's leave. Except you, Babet. You can watch him, since you've taken such a fancy to him." The voice was full of irony.
"You are fine, though," a voice said beside his ear. "How did you get mixed up in politics? You should be enjoying life."
Hands stilled Enjolras' head, and brandy-coated lips kissed his, until Enjolras could finally find a way to pull away.
"Don't do that," a female, brandy-roughened voice said from the other side of the room. "He en't willing and en't got a way to defend himself."
"‘Zelma," Babet growled, but his hands left Enjolras' head, and Enjolras heard man's boots leave.
"Sorry about that Monsieur. My name is Azelma." Somebody knelt down beside him and started to open Enjolras' mouth. "This is dinner, Monsieur. Not poisoned, I promise."
Enjolras chewed back the mouthful of bread she provided, and asked:
"Do you have any idea what's happening?"
"Simple. My father's taking you hostage, and is counting on a decent ransom. They're looking for someone who'll pay your ransom. Asking price is 1500 francs with my father. And no, I won't help you because I need the money as much as the Patron-Minette does."
Enjolras nodded.
"Are you thirsty?" Azelma asked.
"A little."
Azelma tipped Enjolras' head back, and poured a little water down his throat.
"You know, the last time we tried taking a hostage, we all went to jail because there was some attorney under our bed."
"An attorney?" Enjolras was slightly interested by this, and at any rate wanted to keep Azelma distracted while he fought with his bonds.
"It was Eponine's fault! She smuggled him under the bed. Stupid, if you ask me. When you find somebody you fancy, you smuggle them right into the bed. Do you like brandy?"
"No."
"So that's why we're taking precautions with you. We can't have any more attorneys."
"And I suppose there was an attorney in my boots, or waistcoat." There was slight sarcasm in Enjolras' voice, which went unheeded by Azelma.
"Was there?"
"No."
Something in the water was pulling him away to sleep. He tried to find words on his drugged tongue, but he was out before he could manage anything comprehensible.