It was a cold winter evening in Montfermeil. Snow covered the cobblestone streets, and it was dead silent. That is, except for one place. The Sergeant of Waterloo Inn sat in the center of Montfermeil, and it was always hopping with life.

Tonight was like most nights. The innkeeper, Monsieur Thenardier, sat in the middle of the inn, beer in hand, singing tavern songs as he held his daughter, Eponine, on his knee. On the other side of the room sat his wife, Madame Thenardier, with their other children. She was talking with some of the women staying at the inn.

Madame sighed as she finished knitting a row. "You know, I wish he would stop drinking. He used to be a functioning man."

One of Madame's friends laughed. "Really? Before you got married or before the children?"

"Children," Madame said, taking a sip of her own glass.