They were…they were actually doing this. It was all Joly could do to keep his breathing under control. All right. Act innocent. Just act innocent. You don't see anything…and now they were actually at the gate. Grantaire was making some innocuous, forgettable small talk, some excuse about the usual man…dieu, if he were to show up they'd be in trouble for sure…but he couldn't worry about that – couldn't! Just stay calm. Soon enough it'll all be through with. And now they were through the gates. He found himself thinking 'safe' and laughed a little on the inside. The most dangerous part was still coming…
He was startled, so startled he almost jumped, but he couldn't jump, he had to stay calm…oh yes, startled. Startled by Grantaire saying something very quietly. "Well, that's the start," was what he said. He just nodded, and tried as hard as he could to make his heart slow down before something dreadful happened to it.
And then Grantaire jumped down. Of course, they had to unload the clean things they'd brought. Right. Just do whatever he does…
"Hot day for it, homme," Grantaire said, easily, almost lazily.
It was like acting. It was acting. And he, Joly, could not act. Deep breath. You're not yourself anymore…you're Harlequin.
He liked the idea.
"Yep," he answered, trying not to sound as insufferably squeaky as he knew he usually did.
"That missus of yours let you back in the bedroom yet?"
"Nah…things keep going like this, don't know what 'm going t'do." Just…copy Grantaire's tone. Er…Scaramouche's tone. And don't blush. Don't!
"Women. 'S why I never married. Take 'em hard and leave 'em weeping, that's what I say."
He shook his head. It had the double effect of clearing it a bit. "Heartless, that."
"Good sense, more like." Grantaire…no, he didn't seem to be Grantaire any longer. It wasn't even that he looked different. He was acting differently. Scaramouche, then, unloaded the last sack of clean linen and began to pick up the empty sacks they were going to use. He caught himself scrambling to help and forced himself to slow his pace. Just…act…naturally. They finished collecting the bags and he followed Scaramouche's lead, sidling along towards the door they needed to take, and succeeded in not squeaking when he was roughly pulled aside into a corridor. Harlequin didn't squeak at inopportune times.
"Right, now we just need to pin down where they are," the other man said, suddenly in his normal voice, though at a low level. It almost wasn't worth trying to keep track. He was just going to mentally call him Scaramouche until they were out of this.
"I have no idea where they might be," he admitted.
This provoked an face-splitting grin. "What, you think I do?"
"…no…well, you seem to know everything else," he said, in a rather pitiful attempt to defend himself. It had a pronounced effect on Scaramouche, who looked mildly confused.
"…really now? Well. Huh." For a moment he seemed lost for words, then recovered himself. "They should be somewhere along this section of the prison, but we're going to have to find the cell by trial and error."
"They might not all be in the same cell…" he pointed out.
"True!" Scaramouche – though he was really Grantaire now, and it was making him feel more and more like Joly by the second, which was not good – said, with that same vague not-quite-elegant gesture. "I'd put it at 'Jolras and 'Ferre in single cells, Bahorel in solitary, and the rest together."
He grinned at the thought. "Oh, Dom in solitary for sure."
Scaramouche/Grantaire/this was really getting confusing and quite pointless grinned back. "Perhaps we should get him first, the solitary cells are closer."
"Good plan."
"This way." He began to edge along the corridor and Maurice followed, heartbeat growing thicker and louder again. Come on, now, really!
Luckily, Scaramouche was doing all of the work, flicking back the window at each cell he passed and briefly apologizing to each of their inmates. "Sorry…sorry, just looking for a friend…" It seemed like it was taking absolutely forever. What if they were to be caught? What if Dominic wasn't in here and they had wasted their precious time for nothing? What if…
"…bloody hell?" broke in on his thoughts from one of the cells further down. Scaramouche stopped where he stood.
"…Joly…" he said quietly, "that sound like Bahorel to you?"
Wait, now he was Joly? He couldn't be Joly. Joly wasn't good for this kind of thing. He couldn't focus, and he had to focus. Focus… "Yeah…it does."
Scara…Grantaire…whoever…looked a bit uncertain. But resolute at the same time. Rather how he himself felt. "Right. I suppose here is where we find out if we can actually pull this off."
He just gave a nervous nod and watched, creeping up a little, as the other man slipped up to the cell in question and called in, voice disguised. "Hello in there."
"Go to hell," its inhabitant drawled.
Grantaire snorted and turned back to him. "Definitely Bahorel." He produced something…fiddly looking…oh. Lock-picking tools, of course. He opened the door with an unsettling ease – again, did he even want to know where he'd learned that? Or what other use he'd put it to?
None of which changed the fact that the door was open. Scaramouche – he was definitely Scaramouche – leaned against the doorframe, looking into the cell. "You want out?"
"The hell I d-…" came from within.
Bahorel must have eventually given some agreement, though, because Scaramouche nodded to him. "Well fine. Follow Papa Scaramouche. It's going to be a strange thing, but we rather thought a sack might do the job of hiding your frame."
"All…what?" He could hear the incredulity in Bahorel's voice and could well imagine the face he was making.
Scaramouche produced one of the sacks and held it up for Bahorel to see. "There's a cart. There's a laundryman, my good self, and there are seven sacks. However, I will enlist you, if you permit, to help with the others. We can't carry seven of you all the way to the door."
He almost laughed aloud at the thought of himself trying to lift Dominic at all; hell, Dominic could probably lift and carry him under one arm if he wanted to. Of course there would be all kinds of comments made about the habit of breakfasting on bricks being bad for the stomach, but that was Dom for you.
Ignoring Bahorel's unusually stunned look, Scaramouche made that not-quite-elegant gesture again – was it a nervous tic? He himself had several, but the idea of either Grantaire or Scaramouche having any kind of nervous habits, or even being nervous, was near-impossible to fathom – and beckoned him out of the cell. "Come along. As long as we keep to the side-corridors our chances of discovery are quite small." With that he simply turned and began sauntering along the corridor – banging on doors breezily as he went – so that Bahorel had no choice but to emerge and follow, looking as if the Devil himself had come to spring him. Maurice couldn't blame him.
When they had all caught up with each other, Scaramouche stopped them and handed over the sacks to a still-bemused Bahorel. "Right. It is my belief that most of your friends are in the back cells, possibly excepting the leader and his second. The main cells are this way. The single cells are further on. Come along."
"You sure know the prison system," Dominic said, bundling up the sacks without protest.
"I have maps," replied his savior airily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and led them onwards. The fact that Bahorel hadn't recognized either of them was both amusing and gave Maurice a snatch of hope. He needed it.
The little group crept uneasily through the darkness – well, he and Dominic were uneasy; Scaramouche seemed as blithe as if he were walking down the street – until they reached what must be the middle cells. "…This is going to be a bit more tricky," Scaramouche said quietly, peering around the corner. "There's a lot of cells, and a few guards."
"Well, hell, if they see me…" Bahorel said in an undertone.
"Simple. They won't. Stay here, in a sack." The look on Dom's face was so perfect it was a real struggle not to laugh. "Hmm…" Scaramouche relieved Bahorel of most of the sacks he was carrying. "Right. You come with me, Harlequin. If you'll be so kind as to dump this over the ground when I give the word…" He passed the sacks along. "And then hold the sack up to mask me."
He, Maurice, was not very sure about this, especially as he had just taken a peek out at the guard in the hall and now felt properly intimidated (which was, he was sure, part of the point of keeping a guard there.) But being Harlequin, he didn't have much choice but to go along with it. Everything depended on doing this right. Come on, come on,you can do this…or Harlequin can, anyway…he forced his heart out of his throat and pried his feet loose from the floor so he could follow Scaramouche around the corner.
He could only presume the other man was casually glancing into cells as they passed them, as he kept his head well down until he heard the whisper, "All right, drop it." He did so gladly, and in a hopeless heap that would have done Daniel proud. Now he had always wondered what having an arthritic back would feel like…
Masked by his efforts (he was most certainly not melodramatic, no matter what some people might say, but if he had been – well, this is what it would have looked like) to retrieve the spilled linen, Scaramouche continued to mess with the lock until it clicked free. "Right," he said under his voice, "you're going to have to get them out. I'll distract that idiot over there…just take them back to where Bahorel is." And just like that he had slipped away and was striding up to the guard, who luckily was standing far enough down the hall to have a poor view in any case. He…Harlequin…totally unrecognizable…not a man they knew…not a wanted man at all, no…waited until they began to talk (something about an offer of liquor) before he slid the door open just enough for his slender width and slipped inside.
A quick glance was enough to reassure him that these were indeed his friends. Luc in the corner – probably pining for Dom – Prouvaire sprawled on the one bench – in the act of messing with his hair ribbons – Feuilly with his back braced against the wall – about to bring up some famous Polish rebel's incarceration, no doubt, really sometimes he was as bad as Combeferre – and in the other corner…Daniel. His stomach twitched. Fooling Dom and the guards was one thing and fooling Daniel was another. But he couldn't waste time. Besides, wasting time was one thing he was known to- just get on with it!
Self-consciously, he lowered his voice, in tone to avoid being heard and in pitch because Harlequin sounded like he had actually got through pubescence. "You fellows want out of here, don't you?"
Well. It was as if he'd suddenly grown a third head, or a second nose. He almost reached up and touched his nose at the thought and barely stopped himself.
"Who the hell are you?" Feuilly asked.
"I second that!" Lucien said.
"Thirds!" Prouvaire said, in what he was sure was the bravest tone the poet could muster.
"That doesn't matter," he said, trying not to lose his intensity. "You all have one chance to get out of here, and it's us."
Lucien looked at Feuilly. "Sounds good to me." Sometimes he thought everything sounded good to Lucien.
Evidently Feuilly agreed because his eyes narrowed a bit. "It could be a trap."
"Dios, Feu…what's the worst they could do, throw us in prison?" Lucien laughed.
"Touche," came back the reluctant grumble.
"I think we should go," Prouvaire said timidly, still fidgeting with those precious ribbons –
But now Daniel was walking over. Merde. Did he suspect anything? The makeup was awfully thick but… "…you others should go first," Daniel said, continuing to move towards him. "I'll probably fall over and alert the cognes."
"Come on then," he said, trying not to let his dry mouth get to him don't recognize me don't recognize me merde, merde, merde don't recognize me "Time's running out fast."
Thankfully, Lucien took the lead. "Come on amis," he said, hurrying out and slipping down the hall in the direction indicated. Prouvaire and Feuilly followed him – Feuilly giving him one last critical look as he passed. How was it possible that one man could simultaneously be so idealistic and so distrustful? And Daniel left without comment. Thank Dieu for that.
He himself slipped out behind them and shut the door as quietly as he could, making brief eye contact with Scaramouche. As he chased Daniel around the corner he heard Scaramouche making his excuses to the guard. The first part of their foolish, crazy, unthinkable, ridiculous plan had almost been pulled off…