Hyacinthe Joly was very handsome, but he did not know it. When he gazed at his reflection in his small hand mirror (which was often), he did not see the blonde curls framing the delicate white face, the naturally curved up lips, or the bright hazel eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes, his most prominent feature. He only saw a pale young man with an oddly-colored tongue. Or was it odd? He wasn't sure. But better safe than sorry, and he swallowed two large pills.

His friends all thought something was wrong with him, but not in the way he supposed. They called him a hypochondriac. Of course he wasn't a hypochondriac. He was simply being aware of his physical condition and taking care of himself. But his friends all thought they knew what was best for him.

"I suggest you drop the doctor idea and go into chemistry or something," said Combeferre, who was also studying medicine.

"I could give you a good pounding to cure you of the crazy," offered Bahorel.

"Spend more time with flowers," said Jean Prouvaire.

"You need a girlfriend," laughed Courfeyrac.

A girlfriend? What would he do with a girlfriend? No, he didn't have time for that. He needed to focus on his studies. And he was NOT switching to chemistry.

"Hey, Joly, want to head over to the Corinth?" asked Fernand Laigle, his best friend and roommate.

"Sure." Joly always found time for Laigle and the Corinth wine shop, though. He pulled on his coat, slipping the hand mirror into a pocket, put on his hat, and grabbed his cane. Laigle had on only a tattered coat. He had lost his hat during their last excursion.

They stepped out into the chilly spring air. Laigle almost said, "We'll be lucky if we don't catch colds in this weather," but then thought better of it. Joly took the mirror from his pocket and stuck out his tongue, puckering his eyebrows. "Joly . . ." but Laigle spoke too late. Joly collided with a girl who had been staring at her shoes. Joly dropped the mirror and caught the girl before she fell.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, I didn't-" He stopped, transfixed by the lovely creature he held in his arms. She was like a breath of summer caught in the fragile body of a woman. Her hair, escaping in long tendrils from beneath her hat, glowed sunbeams. Her skin radiated warmth; her eyes, the cloudless sky. Tiny white hands clutched his arms.

"Excuse me, monsieur," snapped a male voice above him. Joly tore his gaze away from the girl and looked up at the man glaring down at him. "Let go of my sister."

Joly blinked, and hastily released the girl. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Laigle staring in shock. He turned back to the girl and she smiled shyly. Dimples graced her cheeks. "Thank you, monsieur."

Joly managed to return the smile. "Anytime, mademoiselle."

"Let's go, Chette," said her brother, taking her arm, still glaring at Joly.

The girl pulled away from him. "Stop it, Pierre. I'm no longer a child." Pierre said nothing, but remained close to her side. She returned to Joly. "My name is Musichetta Tremblay. What's yours?"

"Fernand Laig – I mean, Hyacinthe Joly."

"What a beautiful name!"

Joly blushed.

"All, Chetta, come on, let's go." Pierre maneuvered Musichetta away and down the street, while she gazed longingly back at Joly.

Laigle coughed and walked up to his spellbound friend. "So, um . . ."

Joly, staring after the girl, touched Laigle's arm in a daze. "Tell me, Bossuet . . . is that vision of loveliness a mere dream or a sweet reality?"

"Uh, a sweet reality . . . have you been reading Prouvaire's poetry? But anyway, don't you think she's a little young for you? She can't be a year over sixteen."

"Young? I'm young. I only just turned twenty-three. That's not too old, is it?" He frowned, suddenly worried. "Is it, Bossuet?"

Laigle shrugged. "I'm no expert in love. That's Courfeyrac and Prouvaire's field. Why don't you talk to them?"

Joly did, when he and his friends gathered for another revolutionary meeting at the Café Musain. Courfeyrac laughed and banged his fist on the table. "Is it Musichetta Tremblay?"

Joly started. "How did you know?"

"Oh, she's a friend of my girlfriend, Mireille. I've seen her at some dances and parties, a few of which you've attended, my dear Joly. I've seen how Musichetta looks at you. She's been madly in love with you for several months before you even noticed her."

Joly reddened. "Oh."

"As for age, I wouldn't worry about it. Seven years apart isn't that bad. What you do need to be concerned about is Pierre, her dragon brother. He's her chaperone everywhere, and he's highly mistrustful of pretty much all other males."

Joly quaked.

Prouvaire didn't have much to offer. "Well, you see, I've never actually talked to any female ever, except for my mother."

"What about the house maids?"

Prouvaire looked like he would faint. "Of course not! But listen, if I were you, I would give her lots of poems and flowers. And chocolate. I love chocolate."

"Well, I'm not giving you any."

Despite whatever Laigle thought, Joly was not much of a poet, so he contented himself in buying flowers and chocolate truffles for the beautiful Musichetta and carrying them around everywhere with him in case he came across her again.

A week later, he found her strolling in the Luxembourg Park with her brother, and Joly felt like he would die. But he would die if he did not speak to her again. He tipped his hat at what he hoped was a dashing angle, and strode up to them. About a hundred feet away, Pierre froze him with an icy look. But Musichetta saw him, and escaping from her brother, ran up to Joly, radiating golden summer with every movement.

"Hello, Mademoiselle Musichetta," Joly squeaked, and gave her the two bouquets and three boxes of chocolates he held. Pierre ran up protesting, but Musichetta laughed and handed one of the bouquets and all the boxes to him, and he fell silent.

"Oh, please call me Musichetta, or even better, just Chetta, Monsieur Joly."

"Then please call me Hyacinthe."

She dimpled with pleasure. "Hyacinthe."

"Would you . . . would you like to accompany me to the theater tonight, Ma – Chetta?" He quickly added, "Your brother is invited, too, of course. And I'll pay. Of course."

Her cloudless eyes sparkled. "Yes!"

"Hold on!" cried Pierre, fuming. "This is going too far!

"But he says you can come, Pierre! Please let me go!"

Pierre hesitated. He looked at Joly, a rather small and skinny young man, rather pale, but those bright hazel eyes, full of love and life, told him that he had nothing to fear. Joly did this unconsciously; it was simply his nature. "Fine," relinquished Pierre.

That night, at the theater, Joly could sense Pierre's discomfort, but since Pierre never said a word, not even when Musichetta laid her head on Joly's shoulder and he caressed her cheek, Joly didn't worry about it.

After the play, Joly offered to escort Musichetta home. Pierre walked behind in the shadows, watching them. After a few minutes, Joly stopped and ran back to a vendor who was closing up. He returned with a crimson bonnet, blushing, but smiling. "It's for you," he told Musichetta. "It matches your dress."

"Oh, Hyacinthe! Thank you so much! I love it."

Joly went behind her, placed the bonnet on her golden hair, and tied the crimson ribbons under her chin. And then, on a dangerous impulse, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her cheek. Pierre made a strangled noise and took a step toward them. But suddnely Musichetta laughed, and Joly swung her around in the middle of the street and kissed her again. Looking over at her brother, Musichetta called, "Come on, Pierre! This is the happiest night of my life and you're missing it!"

Joly put her down, trembling, certain his death was near. Pierre walked up to him, fists clenched, eyes burning, but a smile flickered on his lips. "You're very daring, Monsieur Joly. I would love - love - to kill you, but," he glanced at Musichetta, who glowered at him, "Chetta would hate me forever if I did." He held out his hand stiffly. "So let's just shake."

Joly obliged him, still trembling, but feeling more reassured.

But then Pierre's smile vanished. "But don't try any funny business or I will kill you."

Joly swallowed and nodded. "Understood, monsieur."

Musichetta giggled. "Oh, you boys are so silly." And she kissed his cheek.

Fin

(What do you think happens when Pierre Tremblay finds out Joly's a hypochondriac?)