Author's Note: I do not own Les Miserables. I would not own it in a box, I would not own it with a fox, I do not own it here or there, I do not own it anywhere. Anyone who can predict what is going to happen based upon Orka Vygotsky's name is brilliant. :-)
Orka Vygotsky tied her shawl securely around her thin shoulders. Clutching her basket tightly in her gnarled leather like hands she strode out of her store and into the street.
"Look out!" a male voice cried.
Orka barely stifled the curse that rose to her lips. Her basket was knocked out of her grasp and its contents spread into the street. She looked up to see three young men running around the corner and out of sight. Mumbling she bent over to pick up her belongings. "Acting like children." She muttered.
Another pair of hands soon joined her own. "Sorry about them." A gentle voice said.
She looked up again and saw a young man with a kind face and a pair of glasses that were slightly askew. His hair was tousled by the wind and he was evidently out of breath.
"We were racing." He said apologetically as he handed her a needle and spool of thread he had just retrieved from a mud puddle.
Musingly Orka took the items from him and placed them in her basket. She hadn't entirely gotten over her initial wrath and was at this particular moment plotting. An idea suddenly formed in her mind. With it a smile formed on her lips. She met the young man's gaze.
"No apology needed. Such a kind young man, stopping to help an old woman such as myself. I must thank you." Orka said, patting the boy on the arm.
"Oh, no. No need to thank me. Anyone would have done—"
"But no one else did. Your friends ran off," she made a broad encompassing gesture indicating the street around them, "and no one else even gave me a glance." Standing up she tugged on his arm. "You will come into my shop and I will give you a bottle of very good wine. You must take it." She added seeing her helper was about to protest. "It would be a grave insult to me if you turned my offer down."
The young man smiled and pushed his glasses back up to their proper resting place on his nose. "I wouldn't want to insult you." He said, allowing Orka to lead him into her shop.
"You wait right here, young man." Orka ordered as she disappeared into the back of the store. In the backroom of the store she grabbed a small dusty bottle. She then took a bottle of wine, opened it and poured herself a glass. She then added the contents of the dusty bottle to the bottle of wine. Taking the wine bottle and her own glass of wine into the front of the store she smiled shyly.
"It is a tradition in my culture to pour a glass of wine from the bottle you give as a present. That way, you drink from the same bottle even though you do not drink together." She handed him the wine bottle and took a sip from her glass.
"I thank you. Good health to you, Madame." The young man said taking the bottle.
"Please, share this gift with your friends. Maybe it will teach them…teach them to help people when they are in need."
"I will do so. Good day, Madame." The young man bowed politely and exited from her shop.
Orka Vygotsky smiled. "Yes, indeed. Maybe it will teach them."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"And she gave you a bottle of wine?" Bahorel groaned.
"Combeferre has all of the luck." Joly groaned.
"You three left an old woman in the middle of the street?" Prouvaire asked, obviously shocked to the core of his very being.
"And she told me to share it with my friends." Combeferre said, pouring the wine into glasses. "Personally, I think Enjolras, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac and myself should have priority."
Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet protested loudly.
"But," Combeferre said handing them each a glass. "Enjolras and Courfeyrac are not here." He smiled slightly. "And she said she hoped it would teach you to help people in need."
"Probably poisoned it." Bahorel joked, taking a swig from his glass.
"It is excellent wine." Joly remarked.
"Quite good." Prouvaire added.
The five drank their wine in silence for a while. Bahorel put down his empty glass and nudged it gently aside with the tips of his fingers. "Strong stuff." He muttered, resting his head in his arms.
"Very." Bossuet muttered, doing likewise.
Joly looked at Combeferre. "We'd know if it were poisoned, right?"
Combeferre felt as if he were hearing his friend as though from a great distance. He peered over at Jean Prouvaire, only to see him face down in a notebook, apparently as unconscious as the others. He was about to reply to Joly when he succumbed to the dizziness and passed out cold.
