A/N - One of a few chapters in which I really must tip my hat to the gorgeous storytellers for inspiration on how to handle R's alcohol adiction. (Read her 'Worth of a Man'. Do it. Now.) We do not own Les Miserables, The Rights of Men, The Flying Doctor, Socrates' plays or Lamartine's poetry.
Stone - you, number twenty-two from the corner. Yes, I'm talking to you, M'sieur. You with the green head and that tiny little bit of moss. Pay attention. This is important, and I think - well dieu, even Apollo thinks it's important so maybe you'll do me the very smallest favour and listen to old cracked Papa Scaramouche, eh?
Not that he's much of a character to pay heed to, my little friends, M. Stone and M. Stone and Mlle Stone, and Mme Stone and the little enfant stones near the bottom. No, didn't you hear? He's practically a criminal, which is why, quite frankly, he is currently in this prison cell and talking to you. Not that you can hear him because he - or I - or Papa Scaramouche - or, if we say it very softly and make sure the Mouchards can't hear us... Grantaire. The Drunk. The Unwanted Man. The Very Bad Friend and Coward Who Doesn't Do Anything Right. The Stubborn Idiot Who Keeps His Mouth Shut.
That one.
All right then, listen here. Did you know that - according to the idols of Apollo himself - The law is an expression of the will of the community. All citizens have a right to concur, either personally or by their representatives, in its formation. Except if you're a drunkard whom no one wants, then you have to shut up and be quiet - or preferably just go jump in the Seinne, eh? Shh. I'm still talking, mes enfants. Wait until Papa has finished. It should be the same to all, whether it protects or punishes; and all being equal in its sight, are equally eligible to all honors, places, and employments, according to their different abilities, without any other distinctions than that created by their virtues and talents. Again, except if they are - as I said before - drunks. That, mes enfant stones, is from the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of Citizens, eh? By the Grand and Glorious Third Estate Which Didn't Last All That Long Really, But Let's Not Say Anything As It Might Annoy Someone.
My ribs hurt. Eh? Dieu, do my ribs hurt.
Oh, you want something different to politics? Well I can't argue with you, though - of course - Apollo probably could. Have you ever met Apollo? Godlet in training. Statue. Glorious... glorious statue... 'Serves me right; I trapped myself and there's no way out. The weather in my future looks threatening, and if there's a storm I'm afraid I'll feel a rain of blows on my back. Or else they'll brand me across the shoulders with a whip - not exactly the brand of medicine any doctor ever prescribed. Yes, I'm in trouble. But why give up when we've come this far? Let's go the limit. I can still make a bid for freedom and prove that Sganerelle is the king of swindlers...Except we'll just stay here instead because, my dears? Whatever does M. Moliere know? The Flying Doctor. Sganerelle - almost Scaramouche. Almost a flying doctor myself, enfants... Except not one who'll be flying, just one...
Poetry, perhaps. Yet my soul, unmoved by this pleasant view, Feels neither charmed with it nor comforted... No offense, mon amis... charming stones... beloved enfants... I see the earth as wandering spirits do: The sun of the living never warms the dead. Vainly from hill to hill, look where I may, From south to north, from dawn to dusk, I stare; I scan the whole of the vast realm, and say: 'There is no happiness for me anywhere.' Apollo hates Lamartine. Maybe he'd agree, though? Isolation, that poem is, you know. Kind of sad.
I'll take both parts of a play for you. The sentry first, and then Creon. The sentry was a worthless man, you know. Creon was a king. The Sentry says Please, may I say a word or two, or just turn and go? Creon, then - Can't you tell? Everything you say offends me. Yes, you fool, you should be able to tell. Couldn't you just tell from the way he sneers at you? Where does it hurt you, in the ears or in the heart? asks the Sentry, being too much of a fool to leave. Creon replies, oh godly man, And who are you to pinpoint my displeasure? The Sentry replies, The culprit grates on your feelings, I just annoy your ears... Again, too much of a fool. Such a fool, a born fool - a blind fool. A fool who is, frankly, better off dead. So Creon says Still talking? You talk too much! A born nuisance...
Isn't that the truth?
Rocks?
Enfants?
My ribs hurt.
And God in heaven... I want a drink.
Yet, not two hours later he was being let quietly into Maurice Joly's house by Harlequin and Pedrolino and their new friend Pan Twardowski. Leaning, perhaps a tad heavily on both Pedrolino and Pan Twardowski because... dieu... at least twice in their short and ... unpleasant relationship inside the familiar confines of the prison cell, M. Pilon had broken things. Things he could feel grating as he tried to move. Things that sent white flashes behind his eyes and made him gasp for breath, even when both Pe... Daniel?
Can I think of you as Daniel again, ami? Will it hurt anyone?
Tried so hard.
Daniel.
Dieu, Daniel, I tried so hard to forget you all. Tried just to remember the names... only wanted to remember masks and names... Daniel, ami you're hurting... my arm... ami...
Harlequin, Pedrolino. Harlequin. Pedrolino. Harlequin. Harlequin.If he could only remember the names and the masks, he'd thought - hoped - prayed that even when M. Pilon brought out his shiny silver knife and started slicing things... started removing things and poking into skin and perhaps breaking other things really slowly... all he'd say if - dieu dammit, Grantaire are you that proud? When. When he broke and cracked before the hangman could steal him... all he would say would be three names. Scaramouche - the captain. Harlequin - the lieutenant. Pedrolino - the strong brave man.
He'd hoped so hard.
Pan Tw - Ale - Feu - names jumbled in his head as he struggled for the right one, tried and failed and grasped and pulled and pushed and finally remembered that he wasn't on first name basis with any of them so t'was polite, yes it really was, to call him Feuilly. Good name, that. Feuilly, was kindly letting him down onto a couch just a little too slow, but he wasn't complaining. Maybe a little. Maybe a groan now... so tired and god - Feuilly - that hurts.
L'aigle was off in the kitchen and Scara... Per... the... man Grantaire... yes, Grantaire could hear cups clattering and wondered if it had really only been a few days since he had last been here with them... drinking coffee. Maybe. Perhaps he had dreamed everything from the beginning to the end. His ribs could be boxing... couldn't they? Maybe they'd all be really nice and let him have something to drink now. His hands were shaking again. The ribs had been so good at distracting him from that... so veryvery good and all the reciting and... but he wanted... needed... had to have...
Joly sank into the sofa next to his feet, white as a sheet and shaking slightly. He looked, in Grantaire's admittedly bleary eyes... dieu... damned... awful. L'aigle sat next to him, heavy and tired, after putting a pot of something on the table. The something was probably coffee, but damned if Grantaire could smell anything through his nose. Which was broken. Yes... broken by...
They'd really...
He wasn't going to...
He stopped and looked at all three of them and though clearly and distinctly... they came for me. "That... was... spectacular..." God. Thank you. Thank you. You came.
"We... actually did it..." Feuilly was the only one left standing and looking sane... was that grin on his face sane? Could it be after all that?
Poor Harlequin - Joly, Joly... looked worse than dead, nodding only a very little as L'aigle tried to rub the tension out of his shoulders. "...nnn... yeah..."
"And I didn't break anything," L'aigle added, in slightly more cheerful tones.
Well, come on Scaramouche. This is your party. They came for you after you put them all in danger, all the masks and names and people that you say you care about. They came for you. Hadn't you better say something? Use that tongue that M. Pillon hated so much. He tried to sit up and stopped with a gasp that almost turned into a sob... dieu dieu dieu that hurts that hurts... oh dieu that hurts... "I... " he started again, lying still and breathing very slowly. "have... to say, I am sorry I got you all into that. I wasn't thinking. They were very interested as to whom you might all be... but they din't find out." I swear, they never would have, I promise.
Joly sat up a little and took notice, his brow furrowed in what Grantaire first thought was a skeptical look, a look as if to say 'surely Grantaire Did Not Keep All Our Secrets' a look that called him a coward and a liar... a look that... but no... "Hell." No. It wasn't that... "what'd he do to you?" It was concern.
For me? You've done enough, my poor friend. "...nothing too serious. Jus'... a few bruises."
Now all three were looking at him. L'aigle had his eyebrows raised in some disbelief, while Feuilly had his lips pursed up as though he'd eaten something nasty and Joly was taking off his shirt and dissecting him... all with his eyes.
"Doesn't look like a few bruises t'me," Feuilly sad, matter-of-factly and please and thank you, and what exactly is Papa Scaramouche going to do about his ribs?
Joly agreed. "I think you need a doctor."
"Much..." and he felt his face contorting of it's own accord into a grimace. "...as I'd like to argue... I think you may be right." And dieu knows we can't get a qualified professional in here... this... looks like interrogation work. "...you want to have a shot, Joly?" He smiled as best he could, only wincing a little as it pulled on his torn mouth.
It must be a truly awful sight, as Joly could only manage a very tiny weak smile back, and just said, "I can try. I wouldn't want to make anything worse."
Ha. Ha ha. Ha, my dear dear Harlequin. You couldn't. He did enough... you know... that... you just couldn't make it worse. Kill me if you like, even that wouldn't make it worse. Might... thank you for it. Damn... Grantaire tried and almost failed to unbutton his shirt, the buttons slipping through his fingers, turning stiff and unwieldy... so very hard not to jab or poke at the bruised and broken mess beneath... "Here... have a look." Sorry. Looks pretty bad, I'd imagine.
He heard soft, growling, swearing sort of noises come from both Feuilly and L'aigle as he opened his shirt front. Strange... wasn't it? Maybe?
"That's some pretty major haemhorraging..." Joly was leaning over him, looking dangerously like he might decide to collapse on top of him at any moment. "Does that hurt?" A finger gently prodded his side and produced a symphony of pain.
He couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath and then gritting his teeth against even more pain as that jarred his ribcage. "...yeah... a bit..."
At this, Joly hauled himself to his feet, oh, thank you... thank you... thank you... and off the couch so that there was more room for Grantaire to relax and stretch out. "I don't think we can move you." He gave a wave to Daniel, shooing him away from his end of the couch as well. "You're going to have to stay lying down on the couch."
"'m... not arguing," he would have sighed in relief if that wouldn't hurt so bad. "Hurts to move."
"All right." Joly's hands shook like leaves on the branches of an old, and winter-stricken tree, and he swayed back and forth in a way that really was not, ami, and I'm meaning this in the most respectful manner... not at all conducive to filling me with great faith in your abilities to do this without hurting me. And yet somehow he managed to draw back the shirt carefully enough to have a look at the injuries closer - without bumping or knocking or - Dieu forbid - leaning on anything. "I think most of them are broken. You're lucky not to have a punctured lung."
"Well..." he couldn't summon much concern over it, feeling like he was floating in suspension between pain and sleep and couch and prison. "He was a very insistent man."
Feuilly snorted, and said something pithy and typical that sounded like "Looks more like a bully to me..." and Grantaire wondered why he could hear knocking. Was that his heart? His head? ...The door? It was the door... the police? Was it Pilon? He felt a rush of panic, and could do little more than watch as L'aigle got up to answer.
