Seeing as it's Barricade Day, and I actually have a couple fics that aren't eye-wretching terrible, I decided, "Well, why not. It's Barricade Day, and damned if I'm going to let all my costume preparing go to waste!"
Lesee. Oh, yes. Sweetie, if I could write as well as Victor Hugo, I wouldn't be geeking out in my spacious room, now would I?
It was a dreadful disease, he decided. This Achalasia. It hindered his ability to savour the fruits of life, in the worst way possible: denying him the pleasure of him not meeting his food once again. What a cruel trick of nature! Surely it must be the devil re-incarnated, he convinced himself. Though, to be fair, even Satan himself would not be as cruel to deny man the pleasures of gluttony. The Lord above, very well might, him seeing gluttony as a sin. The city of Paris did not seem to follow the rest of the Christian doctrine; and as such, it amazed Joly to no end. Whilst in Lyon, the Christian doctrine was followed year-round, strict penance for any such straying from the code. Fasting during the Lord's rebirth, absolutely no mention whatsoever of the capital vices; this law was increasingly enforced: anyone person to mention a vice, even if only in passing, was to be locked up, and tortured.
Whilst in Paris, it was as if the city followed its own moral code. The streets ran with blood, faeces, and germs, quite terrible really, germs. Every street had at least one brothel, if not, one starving mother whoring herself out on a street corner. Drinking was encouraged, just as gambling. The more the merrier, they say! Sex, pffawh, who hasn't had sex in Paris? I hear that strapping young dandy over there had it with three young girls. Kink, you ask? Surely, my dear! Add it in with the charges of gluttony, and lust! Bloodshed, you say? Very well! Do as you wish; I shan't interrupt. It is your business after all.
Then, sometime in Prairial, he recalled, he had met the most intriguing, and increasingly awe-shocking, occurrence about Paris: Revolutionary cafes. The men inside, no doubt had their lovely grisettes hanging off their arms. Well, that was considered the social norm, though, when was this group ever normal? He had discovered the Cafe Musain simply by chance; the most-trusted accomplice of the leader, Combeferre had been his lab partner one semester. Combeferre, as he had learnt, was a philosopher from the inborn city of Lyon. He'd introduced Joly to his friend one day, awaiting his judgement. That lovable pest, Courfeyrac, had come up to him, and slung an arm around the boy's small shoulders. Bringing Joly's face to his own, he whispered softly: Kid, you either make your life, or you don't. Do you live, or do you rot away, like that? At this point, he jerked his thumb to an arguing Enjolras, smirking ferociously, baring his pearly whites. Seeing Enjolras' gaze turn from Combeferre to the smirking college student, he directed his next bit of advice back at Joly: Live it up while you still can.
Joly had not taken this advice as Courfeyrac had longed him to. He later was confronted by a frantic Aimery, shouting his concerns about the fact that Joly did not take his advice. He had doomed the boy shortly after, resorting to hitting on Louison, and sulking in the corner with Grantaire when she rejected him. His next victim was Combeferre, who, whilst not entirely shooting him down, he hadn't exactly out-right rejected him, thus, his spirits boosted, he moved to invite Enjolras to his place for a night of fun. This had the expected response: Camille, taking on the appearance of a Grecian statue, which, in effect, woke Grantaire up long enough to comment, "If those statues look as good as Camille does, I think I might look into this whole museum thing."
Soon after the aforementioned scandal, Enjolras and Combeferre took their leave. Enjolras: measured, and upset. Combeferre: softly, and with a hint of regret. Whilst his friend stormed out the door to the main room, he waited a few minutes, before turning to Courfeyrac, and comforting him. He then, feeling that he had helped a wretched soul, jogged out to the street, hoping to catch up to the blond-haired angel.
Head full of these thoughts, Joly did not see the approaching lancer, a man by the name of Theodule Gillenormand. The reader will do well to remember this lancer; the strained cousin of Marius. He had been in Paris on parole from his troop, stationed near the Rue l'Homme-Armé. A certain angelically beautiful nymph had been flirting with him there, he thought of himself too much to ever resort to a girl that did not warrant his affections, and as such, he did not. He, of course, had appreciated the advance.
"Marius, Marius," he was mumbling as he went along, "I wonder what ever happened to the lad." At these words, the lancer's ears perked up, and he was intent on discovering the exact position of that noise. "Marius, you say?" he asked the air, not expecting, but hoping, a response. Joly, deciding to holy lord knows why, answer the poor fool, went, "Yes, Marius Pontmercy. Hello, air. I'm called Chrétien Joly. Who may you happen to be? Consumption, possibly? Or maybe, Vomica Bubonic?"
The lancer in his twenties swivelled on his ankle-bone, his boot scuffing the dirtied pavement of the Parisian street. It, no doubt, had already been puked on, stained with blood, faeces, and other bodily fluids. Some whore had no doubt prostrated herself on the pavement, eager about getting a sou or two from the rich patron she had ensnarled in her carefully woven trap. "Yes, le Baron Marius Pontmercy. Mysterious spectre, do you happen to know him?"
"Why, know the poor boy? Of course!" Joly responded, still thinking this a horribly humorous jest made on his part. "Poor thing probably has contracted syphilis by now; Courfeyrac's teaching shall never do one good. Living with the scoundrel couldn't possibly have helped matters much." This seemed to perplex the "spectre" to no end; his voice took on the inflection of a puzzled child. "Courfeyrac, you say? Monsieur le baron Marius Pontmercy living with a Monsieur Courfeyrac?"
"Well, in actuality, his true name is to be spelled "de Courfeyrac". However, it's a dreadful name; as such, he changed it to just plain "Courfeyrac," which, in my humble opinion, is a smashing change."
The lancer nodded his head, deep in thought. This conversation with this "Chrétien Joly" fellow had certainly intrigued him. The people you meet on the streets! One day, an old friend, the next, a murderer. He tipped his hat off to the young man, regardless of the knowledge that the man thought him a gag, a joke, and commented, "Very well then, M'sr Joly. It has been quite the pleasure talking to you on this fine Messidor afternoon. I shall hope to encounter you once more, even though, I doubt that highly. Quite the shame. But alas, that is life." And with those final words, Theodule Gillenormand was off, to flirt with some strapping broad.
Joly blew his nose into his starched white handkerchief, contemplating the prior encounter. He shook his head, sighing as the temperature felt as the sun increased its ray output by at least five percent. Walking down the boulevard des Invalides, he made sure to tell Bossuet of the odd things you shall encounter on Parisian streets.