I have decided that Hugo-Balzac (henceforth to be referred to as Huzac) crosses are one of the most addicting things ever. You start by thinking how Enjolras and Lucien look like brothers, and the next thing, your brain has Courfeyrac playing cards with Rastignac, Valjean arguing religion with Desplein, Combeferre listening to a lecture by Bianchon, Marius being a stalker with Chrestien…

That being said, here's a meeting of poets. I dedicate it to the crew over at Abaissé that was discussing which LM characters Vautrin would try to corrupt/seduce. Run, Jehan, run!

Prouvaire is Hugo's, Jacques Collins/Cheatdeath/Vautrin/Carlos Herrera, Lucien, Esther, and Europe are Balzac's.

Trembling with excitement, Jean Prouvaire closed his eyes and grabbed the doorknocker. He wanted the knocks to come out even, sturdy, and professional – rat-tat-tat – but the knocker in his shaking hand instead skittered unevenly on the brass plate. He flushed in slight embarrassment, and after waiting a moment wondered if the noise had been too weak for the inhabitants to hear. He hesitantly raised his fingers to the handle again, wrapped them around it, and found himself being yanked ungracefully over the threshold as the door was suddenly pulled open from the other side, stumbling straight into the chest of a giant priest with glittering eyes.

"Oh!" he cried, "I'm so very sorry! I didn't mean…that is…" he swallowed, "I'm Jean Prouvaire, and I've come to see–"

"–M. Lucien de Rubempré, the illustrious author of Daisies and The Archer of Charles IX," the priest boomed through his heavy Spanish accent. "Come in, little poet, and so you will, but first I'd like to know why."

Jehan liked neither the priest's piercing gaze nor the way he had practically pinned him against the doorframe with his massive body, but he bravely swallowed and asked, "What, wasn't I clear enough in my letters?" The priest said nothing. "Why, I admire his work and would like to talk to him about where he finds such lovely inspiration for our art."

"Oh? No questions about how he found such success? Which publishers will throw talent a few sous? If he can help you find a foothold in the business loved only by dreamers, vultures and maggots?"

"No, Father." His urge to back away was overcome only by his desire to meet Rubempré.

"Well, then," the priest laughed, placing one hand gently on Jehan's neck and clamping the other painfully around his upper arm, "I can give you a bit of advice: until your muse is Ambition, you will be nothing. But come, the master awaits." With that, the Spaniard forcefully marched him around a corner and into a little drawing room, where an elegant young man sat delicately sipping a cup of tea.

As Jehan felt himself released, all of his fears dissipated at the sight of the man before him. Truly, he thought, the individual is as sublime as his writing. Thick golden curls framed a long, pale face with eyes of pure blue that rose calmly as he heard the voices approaching. He looks like Enjolras would, if Enjolras were a poet instead of an orator. "M-monsieur de Rubempré," he stammered eagerly, "it is…an honor…"

The author appeared not to hear him. "Father Herrera, if you would be so kind as to leave us."

"Of course, my children," Herrera replied with gruff reverence, and disappeared with surprising lightness.

Only then did Lucien allow himself to study his guest. Pale, like himself, but disheveled, strangely attired, and practically quivering with bohemian fervor. He suppressed a sigh, suddenly regretting having agreed to meet this admirer, and nodded to indicate that he was welcome to sit. "So, M. Prouvaire…"

"Jehan, if you don't mind. I find that I am one of those men best served by a chosen name than by that of his family."

It seemed appropriate, Lucien reflected, for Prouvaire radiated the sort of innocent enthusiasm that undermined social customs, but the fanciful little reference to the middle ages was almost too much to bear. "Jean…" He mentally shook himself. Don't be ridiculous. "Jehan, then. So. What do you want?"

Jehan blinked in confusion. "What do I want? Well, to talk, I suppose. To express my admiration for your beautiful works."

"It is good to know that someone read and liked them, at least."

"Someone? Why, Daisies and The Archer are masterpieces, and the literary world has recognized the fact! The city loves you!"

"Success," Lucien whispered, his cornflower eyes widening. "Do you mean…Father Herrera! Carlos! Father – no, wait, don't come! We must talk later, Carlos!"

"Oh, genius!" Prouvaire murmured in awe, "that the artist could be so insensible to his material success! That beauty could flourish without thought to publishers or critics! This must be the true secret to greatness! To think…Monsieur," he continued tremulously, pulling a roll of paper tied with a ribbon from his pocket, "if you would please deign to read this, I would be forever in your debt. It's my "Bluebells.""

To Jehan's dismay, Lucien took one look and the rolled-up poem and broke out in wild laughter. He slammed his cup down on the table, sloshing tea on the even-grained wood, and bent over, incapacitated by harsh giggles until tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes. However, when he looked up to see the hurt expression on his guest's face, he immediately sobered, wiping what had moments before been tears of mirth from his face with his sleeve. He gently curled Prouvaire's hand back over the poem with his own and held it there as he looked solemnly into the student's eyes. "Jehan, keep your poem. Keep it clean."

"What do you mean?"

"Jehan…I no longer write."

"What?" Prouvaire leapt backwards, dropping his "Bluebells" in surprise. "I don't understand. After your Daisies, that would be…a tragedy! A sin!"

Lucien smiled darkly. "A crime?"

"Yes, a heinous crime! But…why?"

"Life happened. I had to move on."

Jehan was shaking again. "Genius cannot move on!"

"I'm sorry, friend. This isn't what you came to see."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No."

"Nothing I can–"

"No."

"–say? Write? Do?"

"No, Jehan."

"Is it a matter of money? I have money, if that's what you need!"

"Hush! What kind of fool are you?" Lucien glanced significantly at the door behind which Herrera had disappeared, and whispered, "For the love of your rhymes, don't let him hear you say that. Jehan, I think you should go now. Forget all you've heard here except for this: stay away from journalism, stay away from priests, stay away from the devil, stay away from whores, stay away from high society, don't sell yourself, and don't try to commit suicide. If it's inspiration and principle you seek, find the writer d'Arthez. He's always happy for new disciples. Now, go! Before he returns and claims you as well! Quickly!"

Lucien rapidly escorted the quietly protesting Jehan to the door and shoved him out just as Herrera rounded the corner.

"Well?" the priest demanded as Lucien turned the lock.

"No luck," he replied coolly. "He was one of a million young fools in this city, far wealthier in dreams than in francs or talent. He's not worth the effort. I let him go."

Herrera shook his head fondly. "The sooner you lose this cumbersome compassion, little one, the easier things will go on all of us. You could have had that halfwit bohemian eating from your palm, and you showed him the door. What was he to you?"

"He was me," Lucien said softly, turning away. His devil simply laughed, ruffled his soft golden hair, and left.

Upon returning to the sitting room, Lucien found that the "Bluebells" was still where it had fallen on the carpet. He tenderly scooped it up and moved to undo the ribbon, but then paused, his hand hovering over the uneven bow. No, he thought as castles and flowers and wandering artists flashed before his eyes, he could not afford to unlock that part of himself again. There was only individual he knew was good and pure enough to be trusted with the contents.

Meanwhile, Jean Prouvaire had jogged a full two blocks, more out of sheer momentum than fear, before he realized that he had left his poem behind. With a gasp of dismay, he spun about and sprinted back to the apartment. However, although only a few minutes had passed, the windows were now completely dark. He pounded at the door for several minutes until, his hand throbbing, he decided that his only choice was to consider the "Bluebells" a gift to Lucien.

Back at his own apartment, he pulled out his favorite quill and a sheet of paper and tried to rewrite the poem, but no matter how many times he changed his waistcoat, smelled the little garden in his window box, and paced about the room, the words refused to come as they had before. He was distracted by and swirl of heavy lines about lost love, wasted life, and mediocrity that he refused to commit to paper; there was already enough anger and suffering in the world. Massaging the spot where the priest had grabbed his neck, he shivered slightly and allowed himself to drop off into a restless sleep.

That afternoon, the maid Europe delivered a brief letter her mistress, the most beautiful courtesan in Paris.

My dearest Ester,

For months, you have been begging me to write a poem just for you, and I said that I could not. I am sorry for that. Take this little bouquet of "Bluebells" as a symbol of my regard for you. Cherish it as you would cherish me.

All my love,

-L

Ester tenderly kissed the ribbon, untied the bow, and smoothed the paper out on her table. Several minutes later, her eyes had filled with tears of pure joy. Such beauty, created just for her! She felt as though she had just been granted a long walk in the sunlight and knew with all of her tender, devoted heart that she could never love anyone so much as she loved her Lucien.