A/N Thank you to all you people who have viewed, I'm over the 900 mark now, how crazy is that!
Enjoy!
Chapter Eight
"Calm, darling," He rubbed a soothing circle on her back, his earlier dramatics replaced with sincerity, "If you are going to remember, you'll remember in your own good time." His gaze suddenly shifted to across the street, "Well, what were the chances of that; look who is coming over. Prouvaire! Hey, Jehan! Over here, you hopeless romantic!"
Aimee glanced up to see a slight young man crossing over the street towards them, a bright smile on his boyish face.
"Courfeyrac, mon ami! What are you doing over this side of town?" The young man, obviously Jehan, caught sight of her and gave another smile, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."" He frowned suddenly and leant in to speak quietly in Courfeyrac's ear, but Aimee heard what he said.
"I thought your mistress was that Mirabelle creature? You know, the redhead who laughs too loud and tried to flirt with Enjolras?"
"She is," Courfeyrac's response was offhand, "well, occasionally. No, this is my good friend Aimee…," he stopped as he realised that Aimee had no last name. "Aimee, this is Jean Prouvaire, our resident poet. We call him Jehan," he finished weakly.
Jehan's light blue eyes widened expressively. "You're that Aimee!" he exclaimed, his uninhibited enthusiasm a joy to behold, "Oh, Courfeyrac and Joly and Combeferre have told us all about you!"
Aimee felt a strange stab of disappointment that she had not been mentioned by Enjolras, but hastily brushed it aside. Why should she care if he talked about her or not? She smiled openly in return, the young man's open nature putting her instantly at ease, and offered him her hand to shake, a charmed blush rising on her cheeks as he bent low over the offered hand, his old fashion manners a contrast with his youth. "Courfeyrac has told me a little about you, has told me a little about all of his friends…," she trailed off as a small furry head popped out of Jehan's satchel, "Um, Monsieur Prouvaire? There appears to be some sort of animal in your bag."
"Oh!" he reached into the bag and pulled out a long, wriggling, pale grey creature, "Please, call me Jehan. I keep looking around for my father when people call me Monsieur Prouvaire! The 'animal in my bag' is my ferret, Ophelia."
Courfeyrac muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'spawn of the devil', but as his facial expression didn't change, Aimee was sure she had misheard.
"Oh," was the only answer she could come up with. So, Courfeyrac's friend kept a ferret in his bag and preferred to go by his first name? There were stranger things that she could have to deal with; not that she could think of any right now, but she was sure there were.
Jehan delicately placed the ferret around his shoulders like some strange, living article of clothing, "I trust your injuries are healing well, mademoiselle?"
She smiled briefly, suddenly feeling a little shy when discussing her vulnerability, "I have been blessed with excellent care."
Ophelia the ferret squirmed slightly as her owner tickled her under her chin. "Will you be joining us at the Café Musain tonight, Mademoiselle Aimee?" he asked earnestly, "I believe Enjolras has used you as an example in his speech tonight; it's sure to be excellent, his ones inspired by true life always are."
"He what? The where?"
The poet's eyes widened.
"They haven't told you…? Oh, you have to come now, I'm sure Enjolras won't mind, and all of the Amis will be thrilled to finally meet you; we've all heard so much about you!"
"The who?" Aimee was very confused now, and her head was starting to ache and spin again.
"The Les Amis de la Abiasse, a group that fights for the rights of the people, for the rights of the miserables, for the…"
"I'll talk to Enjolras when we get back." Courfeyrac diffused the increasingly enthusiastic poet, "I'm sure he will agree."
"I hope to see you this evening then," Jehan then surprised her by taking her hand once more and pressing a shy kiss to the back of it, "Enchantè, mademoiselle." He then sauntered off, the ferret still draped around his shoulders.
"I hate that damn ferret." Courfeyrac muttered - obviously she had not misheard his earlier statement - then rose to his feet, pulling her up after him, "We promised Enjolras to go to the market I believe?"
Aimee nodded. "But don't think you get off that easy, Jerome Courfeyrac," she scolded, "It appears you have forgotten to tell me rather a lot about your friends, and we have plenty of time."
"No." Enjolras' face seemed to be carved from the marble he was so regularly likened to.
"But why?" Aimee asked hotly, "Why can I not meet the Amis? Why can't I come and listen to you speak? Why can't I come with you tonight?"
"We do not allow women in the meetings." He didn't look at her, but he felt the irritation coming off her in waves.
"A little hypocritical don't you think?" Her voice was bordering on positively glacial.
He finally turned to face her, and she was pleased to see some emotion on his face, even if it was irritation, and his eyes were like chips of blue glass, "Would you care to explain your reasoning behind this accusation?"
"You speak of a new free world where everyone is equal and everything is fair and just, and then you ban women from your meetings? When they have just as much right to hear your message as men do?"
Her green eyes flashed and Enjolras desperately wanted to say that the reason she couldn't come was that if she did, he wouldn't be able to put two words together in a coherent line of thought, let alone speak about freedom, equality, and brotherhood. Instead he just shrugged coldly, "Women will not be of as much use or influence as men. I need people who will be militant should the need arise, who will be able to shoot a musket or wield a sword. A woman cannot do that."
"I seem to recall that Boudicca, the Celtic Queen, led an army into battle," her reply was sharp as a whip, "In the Bible, Jael, a mere woman, was the one to kill the enemy leader, not a trained soldier. Besides, how many of you boys" –she almost sneered the word- "knows how to 'shoot a musket or wield a sword' should the need arise?" she threw his words back at him like daggers, "Also, it is highly unlikely you will be fighting tonight, hence why I have accused you of hypocrisy against your ideals."
Enjolras may have been reluctant about speaking in front of her, but he also knew that she was right. He wasn't being fair and, even though he hated to be wrong, he hated to be unfair more. So when the evening rolled around and he and Courfeyrac approached the café, they were accompanied by Aimee. In a truly honourable fashion she accepted his decision graciously, only thanking him gravely and asking what time they were to depart. They did not speak at all on the journey to the Musain, instead listening to Courfeyrac as he chattered away to alleviate the tension.
Aimee wasn't exactly sure what she was expecting the Café Musain to look like, but she was very happy with how it turned out to be.
A yellowed and slightly tattered map of Revolutionary France was pinned to the wall, surrounded by sketches of various buildings and people, some connected by pieces of twine nailed into the wall. Several tables and plenty of chairs were scattered around the room, and a battered looking piano sat it the corner. The room looked well used, unremarkable, and was one of the most comfortable looking places Aimee could remember, though that wasn't really saying much.
As soon as the three of them entered the room, Enjolras stalked off a table in the far corner and began arranging a small barricade of books and notes around himself. Aimee quirked an eyebrow at his behaviour.
"Enjolras isn't the most social person," Courfeyrac confided as if he had heard her thoughts. "But that's alright, because the rest of us more than make up for it!" He swiftly guided her to the middle of the room where three tables had been pulled together to make room for everyone and an extremely vocal game of cards was going on.
"Mes amis!" Courfeyrac shouted, successfully drawing the attention of the entire room, "May I introduce you all to Aimee?"
With so many pairs of eyes on her, all male, Aimee felt a flutter of nerves. Dipping her head in formal greeting, she could almost feel the heat radiating off her cheeks.
"I propose a toast!" a slurred voice called from the corner. Searching for the location of the voice, Aimee spotted a dark haired young man in a fashionable, but somewhat grubby, emerald green waistcoat, who was, to put it politely, drunk off his face. She had met him briefly on the morning of her 'naming day'. What had his name been again? Something with an R? She was pulled from her thoughts when he continued to speak. The rest of the room had dutifully raised their glasses.
"To Aimee, the only woman to have done the seemingly impossible and got into the bed of our fair Apollo!"
A horrified silence fell over the room and everyone rapidly lowered their glasses. Aimee meanwhile, though a bit embarrassed, was mostly confused. Who the hell was Apollo? Before she could ask anyone, she noticed the colour of Enjolras' face, and the pieces fell into place.
'The nickname suits him rather well actually,' she thought to herself.
Apparently, Enjolras didn't seem to agree, with either the nickname or the drunk's comment, and Aimee knew she had to defuse the situation before ugly words started flying, or worse, fists. Thankfully, the drunk's name came to her and she was able to speak to him directly.
"I'm sorry, Grantaire, but Apol… I mean Enjolras," she quickly amended when she caught sight of the blond's furious glare, "slept in the other room. Therefore the basis of your toast is null and void."
A deep chuckle sounded from the table next to her and she turned to see a man that could only be described as the human equivalent of a brick wall, raising his glass to her, "I salute you, mademoiselle. No one has put Grantaire in his place for far too long, well, not without threats to certain body parts being imparted. I am Bahoral, Sebastian Bahoral."
"Please, just call me Aimee." She smiled slightly. "I would partake in your mode of address in that you use each other's surnames, but I don't know what my surname is, so let's stick to Aimee."
"Well, it seems that having your head smashed into a brick wall hasn't done you any damage, has it!" Bahoral jested, but froze as he registered what he had just said.
"Bahoral!" Joly hissed, "How could you be so insensitive! Actually that's a stupid question because you're always insensitive…"
"Oh, go fly away on your four ls, Jolllly."
Joly flushed and started to gesture with his cane, but Aimee cut him off by raising her hand, "I've managed to forget just about everything else, I'm sure I can forget your unfortunate slip of the tongue."
"A gracious heart, coupled with a great mind, housed in a graceful body," Jehan murmured, scribbling something down in a notebook.
The atmosphere lightened considerably then, and someone politely offered her their chair. "I am Alexandre Feuilly, a pleasure to meet you, Aimee," Feuilly's black hair was cut close to his head, and his grey eyes looked slightly guarded.
"Feuilly? The fan maker?"
His eyes hardened, "Just because it is poorly paid work does not mean my life should be defined by it!" he said shortly before stalking off to sit with Enjolras.
Aimee looked around the table with wide eyes. "I didn't mean to insult him," she whispered, "I was going to say that Courfeyrac had showed me one and that I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen."
"Feuilly will come round," Jehan reassured her, "He can just be irrationally sensitive about his job and his origins sometimes, especially around a beautiful woman like yourself."
Aimee muttered a slightly flustered "thank you" but was saved from replying by the arrival of two new members, a tall, sombre looking young man, and a slight girl with a mass of dark hair.
"Marius!" Bahoral called, "Come and meet someone!"
While the girl situated herself at a table in the corner, Marius came to the table. His hair was the colour of cinnamon, and a heavy dusting of freckles gave him a boyish look, completely at odds with the world weary look in his hazel eyes.
"Aimee, this is my ex-roommate and best friend, Marius Pontmercy," Courfeyrac introduced, throwing an arm around Marius' waist.
"Courfeyrac has told me a lot about you," Marius said, his voice and smile soft.
"He has told me a bit about you as well," Aimee responded, "He seems to be rather good at gossiping about other people, doesn't he?"
"I would say he has a definite talent for it," Marius answered, his eyes sparking briefly with humour.
"Um, so called friends of mine," Courfeyrac waved his arms, "I'm right here!"
"Would your companion mind if I went and introduced myself?" Aimee gestured to the girl in the corner.
"Eponine can be an… interesting character, but she shouldn't mind." Marius shrugged, "She's not particularly social or much of a conversationalist though."
"I am not searching for gossip or great sweeping statements," Aimee assured as she rose, "I get enough of those from Courfeyrac and Enjolras respectively!"
A burst of appreciative laughter from the other table caught Enjolras' attention and he watched Aimee as she flushed in pleasure then crossed the rapidly filling room to the corner table where Marius' companion was sat. He had to grudgingly admit that she seemed to be handling herself admirably, especially in regards to that comment of Grantaire's.
"Don't ruin the evening by punching him."
His head jerked around to see Feuilly watching him. "It's discomforting when you do that," he muttered crossly, making some final amendments to that night's speech, "understand what people are thinking by reading their faces."
The fan maker didn't bother to reply, instead watching the two women in the corner. "So," he began slowly, a hidden smile curling the corner of his mouth, "Joly happened to mention something earlier about you being compared to an angel by a certain someone?"
Enjolras nearly snapped his pen. "At least no one will pay Joly any mind when he says he being poisoned," he growled.
"My, you're in a good mood," Feuilly smirked, but sobered quickly, "Not that I can talk, I just about took her head off when she mentioned the fans… god we're a cheerful lot aren't we? R insinuates that she slept with you, Bahoral accidently brings up her attack, Joly nearly starts fighting him because of it, I snap at her for no reason at all, and you've sat in the corner all evening, growling like a rabid bear. Why did she want to come here again?"
"To hear me speak," Enjolras answered, gathering his papers - and his wits - and stepping up onto the table. "My friends, my brothers!"
A/N Hope you guys liked this and my characterizations weren't too OOC. The next chapter will probably be a continuation and/or look back of this meeting but no promises.
For those of you craving some Eponine content, I'm thinking of doing a fiction of this story from her point of view. It would give more detail of what happened with Marius and Cosette and my version of what happened afterwards, but following the plot of this fiction. Anyone interested?
Please leave reviews; I like to know what you think!
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz