Author's Note: I did not write Les Miserables. I do not own these characters. I hope someone finds this funny, but I fully expect you to find it mediocre.

Marius walked home whistling happily. He had just had lunch with Courfeyrac, and had managed to sneak out of the café soon after some of Courfeyrac's friends had arrived. Now, the poetic shy one seemed to be an all right fellow, but that other one was just plain rude. He had poked Marius in the ribs and said "Corsica!" every few minutes, laughing hysterically. Wasn't his name Bahorel?

Marius was happy that he had managed to get away unnoticed. Courfeyrac was probably going to be miffed at him because of this, but Marius's ribs were beginning to ache. Besides, he had already decided that he was going to spend an hour of brooding about his beloved Ursula later that afternoon.

When he finally reached his dingy apartment, he decided to study. He had planned on trying to at least get some studying done during his lunch, but that plan failed miserably. Sitting down on the edge of his bed he opened up his notebook and prepared to re-read the notes he had taken previously.

Marius's eyes widened. The contents of the notebook were not his law-school notes, but various snatches of poetry, verses, and random thoughts about love and life in general. He flipped to the front cover of the notebook and read the signature. "Jean Prouvaire." Marius read the name slowly. Then, he flipped idly though the pages. The verse wasn't half bad. It was quite good actually, the sort you could give to a girl.

Marius was struck by an idea. Eponine had just that morning given him the address of his beloved. Marius had been wracking his brain trying to find some way of letting her know he loved her. Grabbing some sheets of paper from his desk he began to copy select verses word for word. He added one or two about seeing her in the gardens with her father so she would know it was from him. Marius grinned wickedly. What an ingenious plan! Girls loved deep poetic sorts of man...Marius may have been deep in some respects, but he certainly wasn't poetic. Marius's one and only poem had begun as thus:

"The stars are rather pretty
And my bed sheets are gritty."

Giddy with satisfaction he hurried off to place the loose sheets of paper where his angel was bound to find them. On his way out of the building he tossed Jean Prouvaire's notebook into a heap of rubbish.