Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterflyNor moth with dusty wing. ---Christina Rossetti
Combeferre always had a healthy interest in butterflies and moths, and his enthusiasm had rubbed off on Feuilly. Thrilled to have a peer interested in his pet hobby, Combeferre had eagerly offered to show Feuilly how one went about collecting and preserving specimens. The fan maker accepted the offer, and the two had spent the day attempting to find some sort of winged insect to capture and mount. After an exhausting search, they managed to capture a rather impressive large brown moth.
After securing the gentle and surprisingly calm insect in a jar, the two took it back to the cafe's backroom. Jean Prouvaire was sitting at their table with a book of Italian poetry in one hand, and some of Combeferre's tools in the other. He looked slightly bemused.
"Hullo, Prouvaire." Combeferre said, setting his jar down on the table.
"Good day." Jean replied looking at the jar with a smile. "What an impressive moth!" He peered at the insect with an affectionate expression on his face.
"Thank you! It took us all day to find him...I was willing to settle for any sort by the time we came across this fellow. I'm really quite pleased with him. He should make an excellent addition to my collection."
Jean's smile faltered. "Pardon?"
Feuilly spoke up cheerfully. "Combeferre collects butterflies and moths. He captures them and then he mounts them."
"Mounts them?" The poet was looking at the moth with great concern.
Combeferre laughed slightly. "You take the moth and then put a pin through it, so it sticks to the mounting board."
"After the moth has expired of course."
"Well, no, Jehan...while the moth is still living."
"That's barbaric!" He snatched the jar and held it protectively to his chest.
"It's a moth, Prouvaire."
"It's living! I daresay you'd have a few objections to having a sharp object rammed through your chest while you're still living, Combeferre!"
"That's hardly the same thing."
"I fail to see the difference. "
"You eat fish, prawns, and chicken. Should I be the one to break the news that those were all living creatures?"
"Yes, I eat them. I don't just go around killing them for the heck of it so I can display their carcasses in some sort of grisly case of death."
Combeferre sighed. "If it bothers you so much, don't watch." He made a movement to take the jar back, but the poet sidestepped him.
"I won't allow it."
Feuilly put a hand on Jean Prouvaire's shoulder. "Jehan, really, you need to stop and think for a moment. It is only an insect. I doubt it can even feel it."
Prouvaire looked inside the jar at the dusty winged moth. The moth wiggled its antennas at him. "Couldn't you let him go?" He pleaded.
Combeferre felt odd. Prouvaire was actually a good six months his senior, however, he often felt much older than the dreamy eyed poet. At this moment he felt years older than his friend, who was in his opinion, acting quite childishly. Wordlessly he held out his hand for the jar.
Shaking his head with infinite sadness, Prouvaire handed the jar back. "I'm sorry." He muttered as he placed the jar in Combeferre's hands.
"Apology--"
"I wasn't talking to you." Prouvaire replied in a tone that was almost harsh.
"To the moth?" Feuilly sniggered.
"He's the one up for execution, because of me."
Feuilly and Combeferre exchanged glances and rolled their eyes as they sat down and began to prepare the mounting board. Jehan sat down across from them watching them with an expression of utmost disgust and sorrow.
"If this is going to bother you, Jean Prouvaire, you ought to leave." Feuilly suggested, not all together unkindly.
"I really think I should bear witness." The young man replied softly.
Combeferre opened the jar and retrieved the moth easily. He placed it onto the mounting board. The moth not sensing the mortal peril of the situation sat happily waving its antennas in the breeze.
Lifting the pin, Combeferre swiftly jabbed it into the moth's thorax.
Feuilly suddenly understood Prouvaire's initial reaction. The moth's legs writhed in silent agony, and Feuilly felt sickened.
Combeferre blinked at the horror-stricken expression on Feuilly's face and the tears on Prouvaire's miserable one. "This is science." He explained patiently.
"Do unto others..." Jean muttered rubbing his eyes roughly.
"It's a moth." Combeferre sighed. The moth had stopped moving, and remained a beautiful specimen pinned to the board. Only its legs were bent in the unmistakable sharp angle of insect demise. "See? Now later I'll label it and it will serve as an example of this species of moths for years to come. This month it is going to serve as a model so I can draw it. I need to practice my labeling skills."
Feuilly looked at the floor. Prouvaire looked at the moth.
Combeferre sighed loudly once more and looked at the ceiling. "It's a moth! What do you want me to do? Find a plot and bury it while reciting a short eulogy?"
Fan maker and poet both remained silent.
The medical student looked at his specimen. It was just an insect after all. He couldn't understand why his friends were so upset.
But, as Combeferre studied the lifeless form pinned to the board he remembered, unwillingly, how adorable it had looked waggling its antennas in the breeze, and how unafraid of him it had been. He groaned and rested his head on the table.
"You realize you have completely ruined this hobby for me." He said to the poet, as he roughly grabbed his materials, including the moth's lifeless form, and threw them into the waste bucket in Louison's laboratory.
Jean smiled weakly.
"You realize you have made me feel guilty for killing an insect." Combeferre added looking at Feuilly as well.
Same weak yet unmistakably happy, smile from Feuilly.
"And now I suppose I'll have to draw the blasted thing from memory." He sighed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Later that week, Combeferre sat with inks and papers attempting to fashion a replica of his moth. Bahorel peered at his slow tedious progress.
"Wouldn't it be easier with a model?" Bahorel suggested.
Combeferre sent a look of sheer venom up at the baffled student, before slamming his pen down and leaving the room in disgust.
Bahorel looked at his friends. "What's with him? Enjolras isn't nearly so cankerous."
"He's more humane." Jean Prouvaire replied absently, flipping through his collecting of poetry.
Bahorel merely shrugged.