Uhh, nothing about this, except I rewrote everything onward from when Enjolras comes in. (Including that scene) Thus, it's not as sucky, and I don't feel as ashamed.
Disclaimer: I have curls in my hair. Hugo, as far as my knowledge goes, did not.
The sky above was clear—if that was any indication of whether the day was to be a star or not. The Heavens often have a way of deciding History's events—for this, see Waterloo. Many a peasant and gamin can tell you all about Waterloo—all it necessitates is a sou, and a life time to listen. Paris operates regardless of the weather; Paris is a machine, unfeeling, cold, and stoical. The citizens of Paris have learned to go about their daily routine, not dismayed by a date avec Madame Guillotine, or a coup d'état—often accompanied by a barricade popping up in one of the city's narrow alleyways.
The dredges of the underworld go about their business with a nonchalant mien, turning their prey into a nice kill by night. Many a lancer—or a smashing belle, for that matter, have been ensnarled in their trap—old, young; woman, child; man, boy. The underworld does not have a collective mindset; only to kill, murder, rape, steal—to survive. They accomplish this by any means available to them—some find it convenient to use their charm, and woo their unsuspecting victims to willingly relinquish their belongings. Others, lie, deceive, mock, pretend. Either technique is generally successful—although, a deviant little miscreant might find it fit to return any stolen possessions to the owner, should they find their hands upon it.
Those not familiar with Paris' beauty may find it overwhelming—even more so when Paris takes upon its white sheet. For example, a student from a rural area might find it awe-striking that many beings could co-exist in one major city. The truth of the matter is, that: They all loath and despise each other. Just like the grand cities of Boston, and New York, the populations are spread out throughout the city—yet, conglomerated within special districts, all home to a singular ethnicity.
All students who come to Paris are forewarned by the local tales to not travel alone at night—lest one should get mugged. However, those are not wise to disregard these tales suffer the consequences.
**
The Café Musain was not an ordinary place. When one came to Paris, they expected cafés brimming with rancorous students; grisettes hanging off their arms. If one were to walk in, and find a prostitute where an at least respectable lady should be, it is obviously not a café. No, no. The sign on the front very well might say "café", but the truth lies just beneath the surface. You are in a brothel—and at the very least, a tavern. Why does the sign so blatantly spell out 'café,'?' you very well may ask. There is a tale behind every Parisian building—and every Parisian, for that matter. That strapping lad over there just came in from Aix. Is he a student, you ask? Most assuredly not. A business man—already in his first day, he has attained a glitzy belle as a mistress. Now, whether this girl knows if she is being used or not is still not quite certain.
But one thing is most certainly sure—this girl is consenting, and has got a decent enough visage. The tale behind this exact building is as follows: the current owner, a sleazy man with greasy hair, a grossly over-weight figure, and an air of cigarettes, and wine, won the place in a poker bet—the bet? His eight-year-old daughter for the deed. Of course, this didn't persuade him to not ship his daughter off to her impoverished mother. Last thing that was heard of the poor girl was that she'd been taken in by a couple operating a greasy spoon, and worked there.
Regardless, the cost of removing a sign was obviously a risky price for a brothel—a newly opened brothel as well!—and perhaps one might generate more revenue if the sign simply said "café", and not "brothel". The landowner, may we also say, controlled his financial affaires with an iron fist. Just the same as the way Paris was controlled in late 1815, and onwards. But alas, we shall move on with our tale.
Some obscure writer once stated that to have a laughing mistress is a joy. Now, whether you believe this or not, you must admit that a laughing woman is very well more pleasant than a weeping one—in appearance, and mien. A gay woman is more likely to accept your advances—as well as looking smashing whilst doing so. Many students share this ideal—among them, the infamous Monsieur Aimery de Courfeyrac, or more frequently known as plain "Courfeyrac", or the favoured, "Fucking bastard!"
As a staunch supporter of this ideal, he had made it his goal to bed the most girls than any of his predecessors. Predecessors, you say? Yes, predecessors. Professors in the art of love. Different from that of a poet, or a romantic—in all his time in Paris, he had never quite connected with Jehan Prouvaire—the boy was always so caught up in the ideas of "true love", and "the matters of the heart". He was a terribly considerate boy—he said this with a full heart---quite honestly. The one main thing separating the two men—perhaps it would be more accurate to describe lithe Jehan as a boy—was the inexcusable fact that the boy always scowled when he found Courfeyrac with a lovely lady hanging off his arm, and other indecent places as well. Quaint, but peculiar nonetheless.
As he slid into the back room, Courfeyrac contemplated these ideas. If he very well didn't have a girl to show his parents, he could pass Enjolras off as one. It wouldn't be terribly hard—truly. A dress, some hair-clips, shoes, stockings, petticoats—all things he could acquire from his mistress. Or possibly Jehan. Some make-up applied here, some blush applied there—he had seen it at least a million times before. He could very well become a professor on women. It'd probably work out awfully better than law.
If he said that it was for the republic, he very well may do it. Maybe he could fib, and say that a little gamin's dying wish was to see a beautiful young woman smile at him. He stared at the wall for a brief moment, before tearing his eyes away, and chuckling softly to himself. No, he would no doubt give him The Stare—so nicknamed by himself, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel—Grantaire was lying on the steps outside, and thus, couldn't participate in the debate. Regardless, they included him, screaming questions, and answers.
The door slammed open as if Louison kicked it in one of her temper-tantrums, and Courfeyrac put on a grin, turning towards it. "What's wrong to-day, dear? Did someone mistake you for a transvestite stripper?"
"Courfeyrac." Enjolras said from the doorway, shivering as he dripped, and looking none better than a drowned rat.
He looked over to the door, glancing at Enjolras with concern. '"God, you look affright. What ever happened to you?"
"Some thing attacked me in an alley after I was seen giving alms to the homeless."
"Who? Was it Jehan Prouvaire? I always expected something lying beneath that timid mien, but I never expected something as this!"
Enjolras looked at him pointedly, as Courfeyrac held his hands up in surrender. "All right, all right. No need to yell. It wouldn't do much to start having a fit, would it?"
"You can see why I would, don't you?" He asked, as he sat down at a table, covering his soaked, flat head with his hands.
"What did he look like, exactly? I've met quite a few muggers in my time." Courfeyrac inquired, sitting down next to Enjolras. "God I-I don't know. I suppose a purple overcoat; god knows why one would wear that of all things, black hair that stuck to his face. I recall him carrying a knife."
"Oh, you mean Montparnasse?" he asked nonchalantly, staring at Enjolras intently.
Enjolras frowned. This hadn't been entirely expected. "Who?" he asked, perplexed by the man's name.
"Montparnasse. He fits the description perfectly. Even more so than Jehan." Courfeyrac remarked as Jehan walked in, looking around queerly. "Good evening, Jehan!" he cried out, grinning sheepishly at Prouvaire, the poet returning the gesture smiling.
"Can you even fathom Prouvaire handling a knife?" he asked, staring curiously at Courfeyrac.
Prouvaire's head perked up, looking at them with those glassed eyes of his, worry and curiosity etched on his face. "What about knives?" He asked softly, frowning.
"Nothing, Jehan. I was just remarking to Enjolras about something of an entirely different matter. He misheard me—that's all." He said, smiling at the poet. Jehan looked to Enjolras for an explanation, not quite convinced. Enjolras did nothing more than return the poet's glance. Jehan sighed, looking at the pair one last time before returning to whatever he was doing.
"Oh, yes. I can also imagine Bossuet getting run over by a cabriolet, but I guess that'll have to wait until to-morrow."
About an hour passed, Combeferre arrived ten minutes after Courfeyrac had told Joly as he was coming in that Louison was infected with consumption, she'd coughed in all the drinks, and that it was best to get out now. Joly had shrieked, clamping his mouth shut, and not breathing until he ripped a piece of cloth to cover the open space his handkerchief left. Enjolras had simply looked at Courfeyrac, before he pouted, waving it off. "Fine, she doesn't have consumption. But she does have syphilis, that's for sure."
It quieted down, Enjolras ending his conversation with Combeferre, and Courfeyrac with this comment: "That doesn't change the fact that even without Buonaparte at the front, the Republic would have been no less glorious." He stood up, collecting his things, and saying "At any rate, I shall have to take my leave, gentlemen." Combeferre stood up as well. "May I walk with you?"
"If you'd like." He replied diplomatically, though, his eyes showed warmth. Courfeyrac stood, following them.
*
"Montparnasse?" Combeferre questioned, looking up at Courfeyrac with a rapt interest as they crossed into the rue Le Peletier, previously in the rue Pinon.
"Hmm?" Courfeyrac stretched his arms to the sky, covering his mouth as he yawned slightly.
"You've met this "Montparnasse"?"
"Oh, yes." Courfeyrac licked his tongue, leaning back as he tucked his hands in his pockets. "Mischievous lad."
"Courfeyrac, I don't believe you should be permitted to say who acts like a little miscreant, and who does not." Combeferre admonished, humour apparent in his voice.
"Oh, psh-pah. You don't actually believe what Enjolras tells you, do you?" he frowned despairingly at him; frown reverting a pout when Combeferre rubbed his arm.
"I'd be more inclined to believe my boon companion, who may I add, actually attends his classes, and doesn't force his so-called "friends" to do his work for him, over a devious scoundrel such as yourself." He commented, turning his head stiffly to the side.
Courfeyrac's pout increased, frowning when Combeferre tore his hand away when he tried to caress his face. "You know you love doing it. Admit it, you geck." Combeferre scowled at him, adjusting the man's cravat; Courfeyrac helping half-heartedly. "It's hot. When it's hot, you take off clothing. Simple as that."
"It's not decent." He mumbled, tugging at his own to let the air in. Courfeyrac shoved his hand away, snapping off one or two of the buttons; ripping his own cravat off in the process, and watching when Combeferre sniffed at his back. "Unlike you, I plan to not overheat before we reach this meretricious theatre of yours. Of course it's going to be boiling in there, and god knows what Enjolras is wearing to-day. I need to be prepared if he tumbles over."
"I'm sure he'll be enthralled to hear the he has such a strong vote in you, Courfeyrac." He remarked dryly, buttoning up his shirt as a bourgeoisie dressed to the nines passed with her Father. Her hand clutched her bonnet in aversion, glancing at Courfeyrac with glassed over eyes. "Well, hello there, Mademoiselle. My friend here, an M'sr Combeferre, has been looking for a mistress so that he can finally get over his childhood infatuation. What say you?"
"And be associated with you? I'd rather dress solely in cornflowers!" she sniffed, sweeping her cape to the side as she stepped back into the carriage.
Courfeyrac scowled after her, turning around and laying an arm on Combeferre's shoulder. "You're better off without her, I say. I'm aware of your love for her, but it's best to not get involved with street-walkers."
"She looked like a perfectly fine woman of society, Courfeyrac." He commented, looking at the carriage headed for Les Halles. He watched as a white cloth flew from the carriage, floating down onto the feculent ground. Soon it would become utterly soiled, and irremediable. "She dropped her handkerchief."
"She'll get a new one. That's what they're heading for, no doubt." Courfeyrac waved him off, taking a watch out of his fob pocket. "When did you say the show was to start?"
"Two o'clock. It'd do well to get there an hour before." He remarked, sighing when his glasses fell to the bridge of his nose.
"One o'clock. I was supposed to dine with Camille to-day, but I suppose we could always go after the show." He tucked the watch back into the pocket it occupied, wiping his forehead.
"It's awfully rude to miss meeting arrangements, Courfeyrac. He doesn't particularly enjoy it when you do it." Combeferre frowned slightly at him, turning away to glance at the various amblers. It seemed as little Juliette was just being courted by that smashing dandy yester-day, and now she was toting around a pram.
"Yes, yes. Now: admit it. You enjoy doing extra work. You feed off it. If I weren't such a clever man, you'd suffer some awful death caused from sheer and utter boredom."
"Well, I do enjoy it—to an extent. Especially when I have to write your essays, and put down inane nonsense."
Courfeyrac looked up, glancing at the building titles. "I believe I got one where you wrote "Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras".
Shaking his head, Combeferre nodded to a building, complete with late 1790s touches, walking inside, with Courfeyrac trailing him. "No, it was: Enjolras sat here this afternoon, his blond locks pulled back with a blue tie. I always thought that blue was a fine colour for Enjolras' complexion—and black for his pallor."
Joly, Bossuet, and Prouvaire were already there; occupying seats in the middle of a row--Enjolras sat at the end. Prouvaire was staring at Joly with a concerned look on his face; gesturing about wildly. Joly suddenly burst into tears, leaning on Bossuet's shoulder as he sobbed loudly, Bossuet rocking him back and forth.
Courfeyrac sat down in the sit next to Enjolras, peering over his shoulder to see the book's cover. "What are you reading?" he asked, as Combeferre sat down next to him, albeit more subdued.
"Fragments on the Republican Institutions." He said, turning the page, his eyes glued to it. "Saint-Just? You wouldn't happen to have "Sur les principes de morale politique", would you?" he questioned, shifting forward to see the print without irritating his skin.
"I do remember seeing that some where in that place he calls an apartment. Frankly, Courfeyrac, your apartment is much tidier than Enjolras', for once." Combeferre commented, rubbing Joly's shoulder, and smiling gently at him. This did nothing but launch him into further bawling, him crying out that he would miss Combeferre comforting him.
"Courfeyrac's is only tidy because you helped him order it." Enjolras muttered, getting tapped on the shoulder by Courfeyrac, sighing as he held the page.
"One wonders how you manage to live in that filth." He sighed, caressing Joly's head comforting as the man's sobs lessened. Joly sniffed, grabbing onto Combeferre's waist-coat, sobbing into the fabric. "Will you minister to me, Combeferre, in my dying hours?"
"What are you dying of?" He asked, brushing a tendril from his face. Courfeyrac snorted beside him, commenting that: "Desmoulins may very be the third cousin of Jehan. You know, I've also heard rumours that Saint Just and he were related as well. Shame you're not connected to Prouvaire what-so-ever, Enjolras. Though, I suppose you'd be a lot wimpy—you'd bake cookies for butterflies, and cry at the funerals of flowers."
"Would you all just shut up? I'm trying to watch the show." Jehan cried, pouting as he strained to hear.
"Jehan, it won't start for another five minutes." Combeferre commented, looking at Jehan carefully, as Joly finally stopped crying, releasing his waist coat, and wiping his eyes on a handkerchief Bossuet handed him.
He sniffed, sitting back in his seat, and rubbing his red, swollen eyes. Bossuet mumbled something in his ear which caused his face to light up instantly, laughing softly. Courfeyrac stood up, touching Combeferre's arm momentarily, before gesturing to Enjolras, who had put his book away somewhere, and was watching the stage with rapt interest. "I made a promise to Bahorel that I'd talk to Prouvaire at the theatre. And I can't very well tell a lie—it simply isn't decent. At any rate, Joly is bound to chatter incessantly during the acts, and I don't believe you'd enjoy that much."
Joly frowned, ending his discussion with Bossuet with: It's as if she believes she can get away with that monstrosity. Who does she think she is? "I do not! It's Jehan over here that never shuts up. And here I am, getting blamed for his messes once more."
"At least I haven't contracted every disease known to man—and then made my friend care for me each of those times—complaining when I did not recieve enough attention." Jehan sniffed, turning his head, his brown curls tickling his collar.
"Now I realise why I picked this seat. Who needs Misanthrope when you have two dramatics battling it out?" Courfeyrac grinned, settling on his elbow to watch the scene. Combeferre sent him a look, his lips turning into a slight frown as Courfeyrac described the scene in detail. "Forget Sheridan! Forget Gay! Here we have the two greatest dramatists of the early 19th century!"
"Good God, Courfeyrac. And you blame poor Jehan for talking during performances? You are the absolute worst." Combeferre shook his head, as Enjolras stared disparaging at Courfeyrac, before turning back to the screen.
"It's just the prologue. Who actually pays attention to the prologue?" He commented, leaning back in his seat, to reach across, and poke Jehan in the shoulder.
"Courfeyrac, I am under the impression that you do not wish to see this. Now, if that is the case, go wait outside, and stop ruining it for people who do." Enjolras stated, his eyes never straying from the screen.
"Since when do you want to see Misanthrope? Your beloved Rousseau detested it." He said, pouting slightly as Jehan rubbed his neck, thinking he was poked. "Jehan, there's a spider on your neck." He said grinning, as Jehan whimpered a bit, before Bossuet patted his arm, reassuring him.
"Leave, would you? You are no better than that cretin slob who lies around all day, doing absolutely nothing of importance." He said, finally turning his attention to Courfeyrac, with a pointed stare.
"You don't necessarily have to leave, but do keep your mouth shut. It's awfully disrespectful." Combeferre added, sighing blissfully at the prospect of finally getting peace.
Courfeyrac slid back in his seat, eyeing a girl three rows ahead of them, in the boxes. She appeared to be with her father, but very possibly, there could be a suitor. Who knew? Parisian society was so awfully intricate.
*
Following the end of the performance, Courfeyrac stretched his limbs, breathing the air in Luxembourg, noticing Joly and Bossuet discussing what he assumed they had been before; some broad of Parisian society that did something ghastly. "Who are you talking about? I haven't been much for gossip circles lately."
"Musichetta. She's sulking once more, refusing to let me anywhere near her, without breaking down into sobs, or flying into a rage. It's depressing how long she can sulk." Joly answered, still clutching the handkerchief he held from the beginning of the evening.
"See, if I had a mistress, I'd make a ghastly error on our wedding night—or I'd choke during the dinner, or loose the ring. What a short lived marriage that would be." Bossuet commented dryly, taking the handkerchief from Joly, and tucking it back into his pocket.
"Did you manage to catch that striking belle in the upper tier? My, what a vivacious body. How I'd love to add her to my collection." Courfeyrac said, his attention straying to where Enjolras and Combeferre stood, increasingly close as they discussed god knows what.
"No. Frankly, I was more occupied with whether the candelabra would fall from the ceiling in a freak accident, and land on top on me to look around the room for suitable women. Regardless, I'd probably sneeze on her when I introduced myself. Not to mention that I was too busy telling Jehan that no, he did not have a spider on his back." Laigle remarked, glancing at Courfeyrac with a less than pleased expression.
Courfeyrac wandered over to Combeferre, intent on curing his slight boredom by pressing the man with a few questions, which would launch him into a nice lecture. "No, I can't say that I agree with the characterisation of Alceste, but I respect your opinion." He heard Enjolras' final remarks, watching as they turned their heads to him. However, he was currently occupied with a young girl over on a bench in the heart of the row of trees. It was the girl from the show, and surprisingly, Marius.
"That's surely charming." He thought fleetingly, as he glanced over with interest at Jehan when the poet came over, hearing a: "Oh, how pleasant to see true love in life! I wish that one day I too, can experience the sweet nectar of blossoming love."
"Well, then. Fine gentlemen, shall we dine?" he spread his arms out, three of his shirt buttons still undone, and Prouvaire glancing at this exposure with repressed disgust.
"Not I. To-night, at any rate. I have work to accomplish at home." Enjolras stated, readjusting the book underneath his arm.
"May I join you?" Combeferre asked, giving a brief apologetic smile to Courfeyrac. Enjolras shrugged, saying only:"If you wish. I must warn you: I am doing nothing further than work, and I am awfully dull."
"I don't mind, honestly." He commented, brushing Courfeyrac's arm slightly as they passed. He touched Enjolras' hand softly as they walked; Enjolras looked at him, his eyes smiling.
Soon after, Joly left with Bossuet, with complaints of stuffiness, leaving Prouvaire. He meekly said that he hadn't anything else to attend to, and if Courfeyrac liked, he would be glad to accompany him. Courfeyrac had grinned, and clasped Jehan on the shoulder, before striking up small-talk with the boy as they made their way to Rousseau's—Courfeyrac was feeling particularly generous.