Courfeyrac smirked. "Looks like one of them made up with the lady behind the other's back. So what about that story, Combeferre?"

"There are many admirable women in the world," Combeferre said. "Émilie du Châtelet, the translator of Newton's Principia Mathematica, for example, or Christine de Pizan, I was always rather fond of her."

"She is enchanting," Prouvaire sighed. "The most exquisite poetess in the whole 14th century. Yet I was always rather torn between her and Petrarch's Laura. A woman who inspired such beautiful poetry must have been herself a beautiful soul."

"What about Dante's Beatrice?" Courfeyrac pitched in. "Not every day do you have a woman showing you around Purgatory and Heaven."

"They're bland, all of them," Grantaire hummed, drinking sadly. "Not one of them is worth a hair on the head of Artemis, the divine Huntress. Though I must say, I prefer her twin brother myself. His song enchants, his visions of the future astound, his eyes rain silver arrows and he's an unearthly beauty to match…"

"Not to be ogled over by mortals," Combeferre completed the sentence, his voice dangerously even.

"Then let the gods themselves punish me," Grantaire snapped. "None of your business whom I venerate."

Joly cast a worried look at Enjolras, who was tranquilly brushing the rim of his glass, still half-full. "Well, Combeferre, your audience is waiting," he said.

"Yes," Courfeyrac laughed, "tell us about an admirable woman if you want, but let her be one that you knew personally."

"I remember one such woman," Enjolras suddenly said. He caught Combeferre's glance, held it for a moment, was satisfied of his friend's approval and continued. "You knew her too, Courfeyrac, did you not?"

Bossuet lurched forward, Joly automatically putting out an arm to prevent an accident. "Who is this extraordinary creature that even Enjolras admires?"

Courfeyrac mulled. "I knew a lot of women, you know," he said, winking. "Which one?"

"Her name was Madame Duplessis."

OOO

Combeferre shut the door with his foot, then deposited the mixed load of medical textbooks, a lithotome, a new book on Chinese poetry, a fetching silhouette portrait and a box of moths on the table.

A moth emerged from the open cardboard box, fluttered its wings in disgust and flitted over to the window.

"Combeferre, get your moth off my book."

Enjolras was sitting curled up on the wide windowsill, half hidden by the burgundy curtain. Combeferre pulled the curtain aside to let in the January sun and picked up the moth by the midsection, taking care not to damage the delicate wings.

"Last time I tried to do that it stung me."

Combeferre chuckled, setting the moth back into the box. "That was a single-spine larvae. This one is a wooly bear, it's harmless. Only double-spine larvae are dangerous, their spines are toxic."

"The ones in your cravat drawer?"

"Enjolras," Combeferre sighed. "You know very well that the ones in the cravat drawer are beetles. Agabus congener, to be precise."

"Mhm."

Combeferre busied himself over the kettle. He knew without asking that Enjolras had not gone to breakfast in the Musain but stayed in the same position since six in the morning.

When he brought over the steaming cup Combeferre was greeted by a raised eyebrow and a pair of uncomprehending blue eyes.

"Tea," he explained patiently. "It's two o'clock. Have you eaten?"

"There were madeleines in the cupboard," Enjolras said, shrugging his shoulders, and balanced the cup on his knees. "I was busy."

Combeferre sighed. "They are nearly a week old. What are you reading?"

"The Napoleonic Code. I'll be called to answer on it tomorrow." Enjolras wrinkled his nose and took a sip of tea. "Naturally I disagree on many points, but now that I have resumed my classes I need to make an effort."

Though his friend was now almost twenty years old, he seemed still the same first-year student Combeferre had first met in the summer of 1826.

"How much have you left?"

"A lot. I couldn't resist finishing that Saint-Just you brought yesterday."

"I suppose... you won't be at the Duplessis' soirée this evening then? I could stay and examine you or - "

Enjolras shook his head, then tried to straighten his legs in the cramped space of the windowsill, having clearly forgotten all about the teacup still resting on his knee. Combeferre lunged to steady it.

"I wouldn't have gone anyway," Enjolras said, smiling gratefully. "You know I don't like that sort of thing. Go without me and regale yourself."

Combeferre stroked the curtain, feeling uneasy. "If you promise me you'll eat dinner."

"I've people to see in the Musain. Dinner will happen."

Though Combeferre had just proposed to miss the gathering at the Duplessis' in so off-hand a manner, there was in fact only one person for whose sake he would do it. Seeing as that one person gave him repeated assurances that he did not need his company for the evening and had in fact begun to shoot vaguely annoyed glances above his book, Combeferre put on his best green waistcoat, a matching cravat, spent a longer time than necessary brushing his hair, rescued Enjolras from a rhinotia hemistictus and finally set out towards his destination.

"How good to see you here, Monsieur Combeferre," the hostess smiled, giving him her hand. "Some of our thèmes du jour require your expert knowledge to resolve."

"I assure you, Madame Duplessis," Combeferre said, trying to keep his voice steady, "the pleasure is all mine. Has your husband made any progress on anaesthetics?"

"We've been in the laboratory all week, with Monsieur Soubeiran kindly joining us. Personally I am for the purification of diethyl ether, but Pierre insists that the key task is to form compounds of methane."

"I wouldn't have thought that trihalomethanes would come under consideration in this problem. After all there is little useful connection between formaldehyde and alkanes or aryls."

"Precisely," Madame Duplessis laughed, sending a wave of lepidopterae through Combeferre's stomach.

Madame Duplessis's husband was one of the most intelligent and convivial men that Combeferre has ever had the fortune to know. However, that only made Combeferre feel worse about harbouring certain feelings towards his wife.

He never thought that such a fate would befall him. He, Combeferre, the polymath and expert on bombyx mori, in love with a married woman? That was as ridiculous as it sounded. And yet it took him no longer than a month in the company of that remarkable, but unfortunately married lady to realise that such affairs did not fall only under the jurisdiction of Courfeyrac.

He tried to relieve himself by insisting that it was not her appearance that drew him to her, though in the truth of the matter she was extraordinarily beautiful. She was still very young, only five years older than Combeferre himself, with luxuriant coffee-coloured tresses sensibly gathered up away from corrosive chemicals, and the brightest, most intelligent eyes Combeferre has ever seen in a woman. And yet all that was not important in the least when compared with the fact that she had an answer for a question such as "what is your favourite molecule" and saw the attractions of caterpillars.

All this mattered very little when Combeferre had to watch himself constantly so as to not offend Pierre who was a thorough chemist and did not, in fact, see the attractions of caterpillars. In his weaker moments, he tried to persuade himself that having a deeply intellectual conversation with a married woman was in no way adulterous. Yet his honesty prevented him from succumbing to those seductive arguments. It made no difference whether the extreme pleasure he experienced in her company stemmed from an exchange of looks or a kiss or a metaphorical union of the soul in an academic discourse.

Therefore, when the soirée was over and Combeferre walked slowly back to their apartment in the Rue des Charbonniers-Saint-Marcel, in his mind a decision was already fermening. He must never go back and face temptation, however hard it might be, regardless of how much his heart might protest.

His pocket watch showed past 12 o'clock when Combeferre reached his landing. He opened the door quietly, hoping that Enjolras would already be asleep, and was confronted with the latter curled up in an armchair, once again in a distinctly cat-like position. The scene was lit up by a single candle, already no bigger than a fist.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading," Enjolras said nonchalantly, not looking up. "Also waiting for you."

"It's past midnight."

"It's only midnight. How was the soirée?"

Combeferre couldn't stop himself from sighing. Never again will Enjolras ask him that question, never again will he discuss trihalomethanes and Chinese poetry with her, never again will those eyes smile at him in a way that only they could… The pity of it!

"Well?"

Combeferre turned around, reprimanding himself for letting all this nonsense distract him. "It was fine. Very interesting. You ought to have been there."

"Combeferre?"

Over the years of their friendship Combeferre got used to Enjolras's patterns of speech, sparse and Puritanical except for when he was making speeches. He knew, therefore, that this "Combeferre?" together with that questioning look and the tilt of the head translated approximately as: "Don't be silly, come here and tell me what's wrong."

Combeferre obeyed, pulling himself another armchair. The thought of lighting the fire crossed his mind. Then he sat down, his elbows on his knees, avoiding Enjolras's glance, not even knowing how to start formulating his feeling into comprehensible words.

"I believe you should stop going there," Enjolras suddenly spoke. "She's a very admirable woman, yes. I think well of her myself. Yet it must not go on, you know that."

Combefere looked up at him with a start. He was of the impression that Enjolras was blithely oblivious to all this vexation. How did he know? Was it that obvious?

"However," Enjolras continued, seeing that Combeferre remained silent, "you have your work, your studies, your moths. You have us." He reached out for Combeferre's hand with a smile. "I may know very little about affairs of the heart, yet I know that you will pull through."

It had been unnecessary for Combeferre to explain anything to his friend; it was now equally unnecessary to express his gratitude in words. A simple look and a clasp of the hand holding his was enough.

The words have served their purpose. The dismal shadows lurking around Combeferre's heart have lightened. There were only two ways in which Grantaire's comparison between Enjolras and Apollo was true - the golden curls and the mystifying ability to speak of the future as if his words were not predictions but facts recited from some cloud in the sky.

"It is true that I know nothing of science," Enjolras said, quieter, "but I can still make you a cup of tea and then you'll explain to me the beetles and the wooly sheep."

"The beetles and the what?"

"You know," Enjolras insisted earnestly, "those moths you brought today. The ones that don't sting because they don't have a spine."

Combeferre laughed like he hadn't in weeks. Enjolras was right. He had his friends, his patients, and now apparently his spineless wooly sheep.

OOO

"I remember," Courfeyrac said. "She is hard to forget. Although personally, I admit I was always vaguely intimidated by women that are clearly cleverer than myself."

Bahorel laughed. "Because they see through your attempts to woo them?"

"Because our little circle provides all the intellectual and political stimulation that I need. How would I relax if my mistress starts reciting Rousseau?"

An ironic smile appeared on Enjolras's lips. "More intellectual and political discussion gets done in lecture halls than in this room."

"I beg to differ," Bossuet exclaimed. "Even I, as scientific as I am lucky, know the taxonomic sequence of the moths Combeferre keeps in his cravat drawer."

"Bossuet, you are wrong," Enjolras said calmly. "The ones in the cravat drawer are beetles. Agabus congener, to be precise."

Combeferre hid a smile. "There are a few laccophili too. I've acquired them since you moved to your new lodgings."

"I personally was always fascinated by the dermatobia hominis," Prouvaire said with a sweet smile. "Particularly when in conjunction with the human brain. I believe I have written a dozen poems on this subject."

Joly went pale and clutched both his empty glass and Bossuet's arm. "Isn't it the one… that one which…" He couldn't finish and Bossuet patted him comfortingly on the back.

"Yes," Prouvaire nodded earnestly, "the one that feeds on various parts of your body in its larva form. Isn't it riveting? Imagine it consuming your brain and becoming at one with your thoughts."

"It's just like Poland," Feuilly suddenly said, "only instead of becoming at one, the parasite sucks the lifeblood out of it."

"Like the Orléanist government," Enjolras nodded, "leeching on the people's attempt to free themselves from oppression."

Bahorel let out a deep sigh. "Only these two could make a political metaphor out of a random revolting insect."

"Mon cher," Prouvaire cooed, "that wordplay is worthy of Byron. Do you mind if I use it in my next poem incorporating the dermatobia and popular rebellion?"

Joly wiped the sweat off his forehead and decided to change the subject. "What happened to Madame Duplessis in the end?"

It was Combeferre who answered. "There were complications in the birth of her first child. She didn't survive them."

Enjolras met his glance. "Her laudable memory lives on."

Courfeyrac filled his own glass, passing round the bottle, then raised it. "To the charming Madame then, and to all worthy women!"

All drank, Enjolras included. The grandfather clock by the map of revolutionary France rang eleven.

"Eleven already," Courfeyrac exclaimed, "and only three of us have told their story. We'd better hurry up if we don't want the last tale to greet the dawn. Joly, you next."