"Who's this?" is the predominant question in the room, with it being asked in some variation by at least five of the men – all of whom, Combeferre seems to know, and know them very well at that.
In fact, the entire group seems quite close, with wine and jokes being bandied around the room, accompanied by friendly touches and warm smiles. The men who had been laughing and singing a moment earlier automatically parted to allow Elwen and Combeferre the most direct access to the hearth. At no more than a look from Combeferre, one of their number quickly brings over a steaming hot mug of tea.
"Madame," Combeferre begins, a hand resting on her shoulder "Perhaps you would grace me with your name?" He asks quite formally, and yet with a friendly smile on his face.
"It's… ah, It's Elwen." She replies quickly, stuttering slightly, as she smiled in return.
"A beautiful name." He responds, before adding "And a beautiful smile – That's the first time I've seen it, and I sorely hope it in not the last."
At that, Elwen can't help but smile even wider, even blushing a little at the gentleman's words.
"Are these… all your friends?" She asks, changing the subject away from her smile.
"Yes, and yours too." He says, grinning slightly- his words earning a chuckle from the nearest man, as if Combeferre had just said some private joke. "We call ourselves Les Amis de L'ABC… well, l'abaissé. A terrible pun, I know. Blame Courfeyrac." He gestures to the man who had just chuckled – the same man that had first welcomed them to the Musain, and the one who had brought Elwen her drink.
"Call me Courf. And it's an excellent pun, I think you'll find." Courfeyrac picks up Elwen's hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Enchanté."
Combeferre rolls his eyes at the other man, before sitting down next to Elwen, gently resting his arm on the back of her chair, his sleeve ghosting against her shoulder blades. He then begins to point out and name each of his friends in turn.
"That's Jehan – well, his name is Jean Prouvaire, but we call him Jehan. He's a poet." He said the last sentence as if that explained everything – both the name and the… intriguing fashion sense.
"He's not just a poet, he's an amazing poet. He can paint a masterpiece with nothing but his words-" Courfeyrac butted in
"Yes, Courf. He's a very good poet." Combeferre says, a little exasperated but also rather fondly. He continues "There, over there is Bahorel – and next to him is Feuilly. There's Bossuet. Over there you've got Marius – he's a Pontmercy, but don't let that fool you, he's got the kindest heart of any of us here. Trailing behind him there is 'Ponine. Poor girl… Marius may be kind-hearted, but he's absolutely clueless." He shakes his head. He continues to point out a few others. "… And over there by the wine in Grantaire. He's… a bit of a cynic. He is not cruel, of course not. He just… Well, they say that in every pessimist is a disappointed idealist, and Grantaire has certainly been disappointed enough times to warrant that label." He tries to explain carefully.
Elwen nods along with each name, trying to commit at least some of them to memory. "How's your tea?" Combeferre asks. " I didn't think you would want wine…" He glances down at her baby bump.
"The tea's good. And yes, no wine is good." She replies simply.
"Madame…" He begins. "You'll have to forgive me for inquiring this, such a personal question of you, but I must ask – why does the child's father not care for you? Where is he, the man that would leave the mother of his babe out on the street on such a cold night?"
Elwen goes pale at his question – because she knows she will have to answer it. She can't bring herself to lie to this man who has been so kind to her, but she finds she wants to. Not out of malice – but because she is certain that once he finds out the truth, he will throw her out. Throw her out of this lovely café, with kinder people than Elwen has ever met. She's warmer than she has been in months, and feels safer than she thinks she ever has been, with this man she barely knows.
Nonetheless, she bites her lip and responds, though not without some hesitance. "I… he was a, uh, client. I don't know him… I have no way to tell him. It's just me, me and the child." She says quietly, waiting for the horrified gasp, waiting for him to usher her out.
He raises his hands, and she flinches, but rather than the blow she was expecting, she feels him wrap her arms around her.
"My apologies." He says quietly, partly into her hair. They are silent for a moment, before he asks "Would you like some casserole?"
"…What?" Elwen is stunned silent.
"Would you like some casserole?" He repeats, like it is the most ordinary thing in the world.
"That's it? I've just admitted that I'm… I'm… a whore, and you just… offer me apologies? And casserole?"
You, like so many others, do what you have to do to survive – the only line of work that out abhorrent society has left open to you. It is not you that I blame for your position, it is the leaders of our land who let this happen, the bourgeoisie who sit in their mansions and do nothing to help. You are free of fault."
They are both silent for a moment, though it isn't awkward- it's time for Elwen to process what he has said, time to realise that she isn't going to be thrown out, time to understand that Combeferre… cares. It is time that the man is willing to give her, quietly sitting there and offering comfort to her merely by his presence.
"Yes." She says, after a while.
"Mmm?"
"Yes, I would like some casserole."
"Good." He grins, passing her request onto a waiter, before turning his joyous gaze to her. His happiness seems infectious, because once more, Elwen finds herself returning his smile.
"There's that beautiful smile again!" He says, causing her to, once again, blush like a young maiden.
People suddenly quiet down as someone else walks into the café, a tall man with a halo of golden hair and a visage not dissimilar to that of a marble statue. He's hard to miss – with his red and gold waistcoat that would probably look gaudy on anyone else, and yet seems to belong on this man's breast. His gaze sweeps the room, a little sternly. For a moment, his ice-blue eyes settle on Elwen, as if evaluating her, before he goes on towards the front of the room.
The people who had just been milling around before seem to congregate now, with the man who Combeferre had pointed out to be Grantaire sitting down at the same table as the Elwen, Combeferre and Courfeyrac.
"Who's he?" Elwen has to ask.
"Ah yes." Combeferre smiles. "That is-"
"Our fearless leader."
"Enjolras."
"Apollo."
The three men each give a different answer, the first – Courfeyrac, smirking slightly. Combeferre's voice is respectful, and the cynic's tone full of unspoken adoration.
The man – Enjolras – begins to speak. His words are about the poor, about the prostitutes, about cripples, about all the abaissé – He then calls for help, for followers, for the people to rise.
By the end of it, the whole room looks like they are ready to take up arms against the monarchy – even the cynic two places to Elwen's right.
Including Combeferre – the man now had a fire in his eyes, a burning passion, though more subdued than some of the others – for he isn't shouting out, and yet, it's none the less intense. He looks at Elwen, and then she notices something – it's not just at Enjolras' words, not just at the suffering of the wider people, that he has gained this look, though they were perhaps the spark. But on top of that, Elwen can see a fierce protectiveness in him, a desire to help her, comfort her… hold her.
To care for her.
