An Education
Being a member of a subversive political society, Bahorel reflected, certainly had its upsides: it filled an otherwise unremarkable existence with excitement, provided plenty of excuses for starting rows (and the occasional minor riot), and – he grinned to himself – it never failed to impress women, who never could resist a dashing young revolutionary. However, he reflected irately, it left little time for schoolwork, and tonight, he was in no mood for writing an essay.
Glaring at the few pathetic lines of writing on the page in front of him, Bahorel drained the remnants of his glass, stood up, and slammed it on the table, causing the others in the relatively hushed back room of the Musain to jump in surprise.
"Friends," he declared, "my teachers are all morons, I hate my classes, and may Montaigne burn for eternity, for I hate essays. My question is this: I am miserable at the university; I devote my life to the ABC; when I die for France, no one will give a damn what worthless degree I held; so why don't I just quit school?"
"That's easy," Joly laughed, throwing down his own quill. "Your dear provincial parents would cut off your funds if they realized how little you were getting out of your education, and you would have considerably less fun in Paris if you had to work or live off of our charity."
"And you do so enjoy caricaturing your dear professors," Courfeyrac added.
"Alright then," Bahorel nodded, walking over to Joly's table, "what about you?"
Joly blinked in confusion. "What about me?"
"Surely you're loaded down with late assignments – we all are. Don't you ever despair and consider giving up your education so that you can enjoy your last few months on Earth before you die in our coming Revolution?"
"Of course."
"Then ask the question! Cry it out to the cold, uncaring universe!"
"What – oh. Er, why don't I just quit school?"
Courfeyrac sidled over, joining in the game. "Because if you stopped attending lecture, then you wouldn't know what terrible new diseases to worry about."
"Oh, yes! We're seeing some fascinating new strains of cholera that can do the most horrific things to a man; it's so exciting! Sadly, such discoveries are accompanied by absolute mountains of considerably less exciting papers."
"I don't know what you all are complaining about," grumbled Combeferre from behind a stack of books in the corner. "I believe I'm taking more classes than any two of you combined, not to mention the commitment that my central role in this society demands. I highly doubt I'll get any sleep tonight, not if I want to finish my report for the Necker. Then there's that letter to the Association libre pour l'Education du Peuple to ask if they'll hand out our pamphlets at their classes. Not that they will," he finished glumly.
Bahorel had little patience with such self-righteous complaining; it was threatening to spoil his fun. "Listen to the martyr Combeferre! How the poor man suffers bravely for our cause!"
"I never said that. Just let me work. And please, try to keep a bit quieter."
"Nonsense," Courfeyrac chided. "Stop being so dull. Play the game with us."
"What game?"
"The one you were just complaining about. Just ask the question."
"Don't be ridiculous. I have no intention of quitting school."
"I'll leave you alone."
"Bribed! Fine." He put on a terribly affected, long-suffering air. "My professors are archaic, conservative dunces who couldn't teach me anything even if they wanted to. I am far too busy to devote the energy that I should to my studies. To top it all off, I am likely to die a violent death before long, in which case my efforts will all be for naught. In such a situation, gentlemen, why don't I just forswear academia and just leave the University?"
Courfeyrac leaned in close to his face, grinning nastily. "Because you're Combeferre." Then, true to his word, he turned on his heel and walked away, albeit snickering under his breath.
However, Bahorel had made no such promise. "Maybe you should quit. It can't be healthy to have so many subjects swimming around in your head, anyway. You've learned more than enough as it is."
"I know why," Grantaire suddenly lurched over, and the beleaguered Combeferre buried his head in his arms with an audible groan. "It's because you couldn't function without that empty sense of greatness you get day after day from knowing that you know more than anyone else in the room. You try to hide it, but the only way to be humble is to be assured of your own superiority."
"How about me?" questioned Prouvaire, quickly coming to the rescue. "Why don't I just quit school?"
"I've got this one, too," called Courfeyrac, as he lightly jumped onto a table behind the little group. He breathed a deep sigh and put on what the others had come to recognize as his 'poet's face.' "There is nothing so sublime as the motes of dust that drift through the sunlight streaming in through the library windows, each sparkle like the flame of a young mind set afire with a new idea."
Jehan blushed at provoking such a performance. "I…I'm not sure I could have said it better myself." With yet another triumphant grin, Courfeyrac bowed, then searched from new victims from atop his platform.
"Ah, Enjolras! You are more devoted to our cause than any other man alive. Don't you feel that your time and talents are wasted in school?"
Enjolras sighed and decided that it was best to get this over with quickly. He had long since learned that his infamous glares bounced harmlessly off of Courfeyrac's indefatigable laughter. "Fine. I am, without a doubt, in the greatest danger of anyone here. My life belongs to France, not the University. Why don't I just drop out of school?"
Combeferre immediately intervened. "Because we fight for education and it would therefore be hypocritical in the highest for you to not take advantage of the bountiful opportunities with which you have been presented."
Enjolras nodded in solemn agreement. "Precisely."
"And you, Courfeyrac?" Bahorel interrupted, annoyed that his game was threatening to turn into yet another heavy political discussion.
"I've never pretended to care about marks, and once you decide to ignore such trivialities as poor grades, I have found that…"
"You're all fools," Feuilly said softly, clearly, cutting through the laughter and easy conversation. "I don't know why I bother being jealous of you." With a swift final glance at the cluster of friends assembled on the other side of the room, he stood up and headed for the door. "Good night, gentlemen. Best of luck on your essays."