Title: Crying Wolf
By: SarahMc - catwoman@merseymail.com
Rating: PG-13 for non-graphic innuendo
Summary: An improbable little tale. Lesgle's stories cause trouble.
Creak. Squeal. Slam.
So much for subtlety, Joly thought as he trailed behind Bossuet into the café. He was still trying to think of an excuse for their third late arrival in the week when Bossuet launched into his explanation.
"Sorry I'm late, mes amis, but you'll never believe what happened on the way here." Lesgle glanced at Joly and grinned when the assorted students' attention slowly shifted from Enjolras to the two men standing in the doorway. Joly flushed and tugged at his friend's sleeve uneasily.
"Bossuet, save your stories for later, let's just sit down for now."
"Ah but Joly, you are far too modest! I was just about to tell these good people how you saved that pretty grisette's life!"
"But-" Joly opened his mouth but found that once again Bossuet wasn't listening. He turned to face his enraptured audience and began.
"You see, we were taking a short stroll along the Seine, it's very pretty this time of year, isn't it? Hmm? Well that's just what we were saying, Joly was remarking on how lovely the weather was and I was commenting on how lovely the women were." Someone laughed, "yes I've often told Joly that he needs to sort out his priorities. He's a silly boy" he paused enticingly and Joly cursed his friend's ability to twist the slightest occurrence into something crude, "but today, he was also a very lucky boy...
"Just as we were walking along, minding our own business, what should we come across? A very pretty girl in a considerable amount of pain, that's who. And who better than our young doctor to help her?"
The young doctor in question was currently trying to disappear back through the door again but immediately Bossuet shot out a hand and imperceptibly clasped his arm. Joly was surprised to find that his friend was stronger than he appeared but he didn't have long to contemplate this because immediately he felt himself being jerked forward in front of Bossuet and forced to face a group of unruly students who suddenly seemed to be looking at him with a new respect. Joly gulped and suddenly had a feeling he should've listened more carefully to his friend's story.
"What was it like?" someone called out. 'Did you see anything?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Joly noticed that Enjolras was watching disapprovingly from the corner. The taller man was, despite his attempts to appear aloof and disinterested in such petty things, clearly very put out by Joly and Bossuet suddenly becoming centre of attention. Joly found himself caught up in a whirl of questions to which he couldn't possibly answer.
"Was she pretty?"
"Was she grateful?" The tone of the question implied that the girl in question probably had a more enjoyable way of showing her gratitude than most. Joly flushed again as the question, which remained unanswered, was met with roars of approval.
"Is that why you're looking so untidy?" Courfeyrac called out and the group laughed again. Joly looked around and found that Bossuet had disappeared into a corner of the room and was chatting nonchalantly with some nondescript student. He attempted a fierce glare in Bossuet's direction but only managed a sort of irritated sniff.
The group of students still seemed to be closing in and he was suddenly feeling decidedly claustrophobic. He could feel their breath dangerously close to his skin. So close, in fact, that it was causing his spectacles to mist up. He pushed backwards but found that they were behind him too. He was starting to panic. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't think. All he could hear was the constant pounding of lewd questions. His eyes danced crazily around the room searching for some sort of escape. He had a horrible feeling that if he didn't get out soon he'd scream. Oh Lord. Didn't these idiots remember anything? He hated crowds. And it was getting very crowded. Oh-
He almost screamed. He had been dangerously close. Prouvaire, of all people, came to his rescue. The poet had stayed away from Bossuet's latest inane fantasy. He had chanced to look up from his notebook and realised with mild disinterest that the latest adventure happened to involve the twitchy young medic who tagged along with the bald idiot. He also noticed that Joly was looking a little too uncomfortable for one who was being held in such high regard by the group. Suddenly a thought occurred to him - he had remembered Joly's claustrophobia. Briefly abandoning his superior attitude in favour of an opportunity for heroism, Jean Prouvaire battled his way, as best he could, to the centre of the group.
"Stand back!" he ordered, "you people disgrace us all."
Joly looked up, blinked a few times and realised that the immense crowd he had been so frightened of only really consisted of four or five students. He considered trying to explain that it was all a misunderstanding and that he was really late because Lesgle had insisted on stopping at the Corinth on the way to Musain. Instead he pulled off his spectacles and began to wipe them on his waistcoat.
"Now" Prouvaire looked about the group, his voice rising to an unexpectedly powerful tone, "you should all be ashamed of yourselves. Adrian here has performed a heroic deed, for a young lady, no less. He is a credit to the republic and yet you people turn it into something shameful." He paused thoughtfully, "what exactly did you cure her of?" he asked.
"A damaged rectum!" called a helpful voice and again the group exploded into raucous laughter.
Now it was Prouvaire's turn to blush. He glanced at Joly who was staring resolutely at the floor and he looked up at the students who still seemed excited. He looked around again, at a loss for what to say to such a crude remark. Suddenly Prouvaire had the distinct impression that he may have been better off attempting heroics when there were no private matters involved.
A louder voice suddenly broke in on the group: "And you all believed that?" It seemed to come from nowhere but they soon turned to see Bossuet standing by a table and grinning from ear to ear.
"Honestly citizens, do you forget who you are looking at? This is Joly! Joly who couldn't get close to a grisette because he'd probably be allergic to the wool in her blouse." Joly gaped as, with remarkably little effort, Lesgle diverted all the attention in the room onto himself. It was so very like Bossuet, the young medic reflected, that he manages to systematically drop me into and then pull me out of trouble so easily. He sighed and left the café, leaving an irritated Enjolras, a bored and aloof Prouvaire and a chatty Bossuet.
***
Lesgle de meaux left the café late at night. Joly had left early and in his friend's absence Lesgle had drunk a lot of wine, told a lot of stories and was by now convinced of two things: one, that everyone had forgotten Joly's little adventure; and two, that if anyone still believed him after the incident that afternoon they were unlikely to ever believe him again. He chuckled inanely to himself and lurched across the street. A passing gamin considered stopping the strange character and demanding a share of whatever it was he had been drinking but thought better of it when the man started singing. That alone was enough to drive anyone away and even street urchins weren't completely fearless.
The song was loud, tuneless and crude. Lesgle couldn't remember who invented it but he had a vague feeling that it had been Grantaire. Or perhaps Courfeyrac. Come to think of it, it was probably Enjolras in a weaker moment. He threw his head back and laughed at nothing, the force of which sent him stumbling backwards into the gutter.
Lesgle shook himself and tried to figure out what was happening. He completely failed and instead remained sprawled and giggling for a further few minutes. Finally he decided that he needed to go and find Enjolras and so the best way to start would be to get up.
This turned out to be easier said than done and as Lesgle pulled himself halfway to his feet, he immediately fell backwards. He staggered to his knees and was just about to give up in despair when, through the twilight he saw what looked like a figure. He squinted and tried, unsuccessfully, to rise but finally collapsed.
Lesgle's mind was foggy and he couldn't quite think straight so he was completely taken aback when a hand reached down and clasped his. He gripped it and unsteadily pulled himself to his feet. As he rose, he was dimly aware of soft, shimmering folds of cloth that stretched to the ground and clung to a plump shapely form. He blinked as he looked up into the face of his companion and registered a perfect pair of painted cupid bow lips, large chocolate-brown eyes all framed on pale ivory skin. He gazed at the soft golden hair that tumbled in ringlets to lovely, barely covered, shoulders. The intoxicating fragrance of some expensive scent swept around him and enveloped his senses. The rustle of the silk dress and the curve of those lips filled his mind. He stared for what must have been ten minutes and finally found his voice.
"You- you aren't Enjolras."
***
Silk. The sheets were silk too. He awoke in a barely-lit room and found himself surrounded by a sea of shimmering, rustling ecstasy. He lay back for a moment, ignoring the fact that his head was throbbing and that he wasn't entirely certain where he'd left his clothes.
The room was dark, lit only by the scented candles that floated in small tinted-glass bowls. The glass was pink and the light shining through them gave the room a rich, rosy glow. He looked over to the bedside table where he found a small folded card tied with a red satin ribbon. He sat up and lifted it off the table and unfolded it. It was sprayed with the same scent as the woman had worn.
The woman. He was alone now and he suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that something was wrong. It wasn't like him to have such good fortune to be randomly picked up by some sort of wealthy lady for no reason at all. Admittedly he had been incredibly drunk and couldn't remember much but still, luck was not usually on his side. Warily, he read the note:
Cherie, Thank you for a wonderful evening. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Your clothes have been washed and pressed; you will find them in the wardrobe.
Merci, Chantal
He reread the note. It wasn't exactly as romantic as he'd hoped and there was no clear invitation to stay. So, contenting himself with the smug knowledge that he wouldn't need to invent an excuse for his delayed arrival today, he pulled on his clothes and left the house, slightly surprised that it didn't take him long to find his way out.
***
Creak. Squeal. Slam.
Someone really ought to fix that door.
Bossuet noted, with slight hint of irritation, that no one seemed concerned about the fact that he was due to arrive three hours ago. Combeferre was explaining something important-sounding to Enjolras who, in turn, was pretending not to listen. Jehan was scribbling on a pad while Joly was peering over his shoulder and sniffling. Courfeyrac sat with Bahorel and Grantaire discussing things that may have seemed profound from a distance but boiled down to wine and women. Marius and Feuilly were discussing the same topic - only in slightly more down to Earth tones. In fact, Bossuet noted, one had to wonder why these people bothered with the revolution at all.
"You fools" he grinned and threw himself down at the table with Grantaire, "if you didn't spend so much time talking about pretty girls you might actually meet one!"
"Quite right" Grantaire nodded, "and if you didn't spend so much time making up stories about pretty girls, you might meet someone who wasn't sick of hearing the sound of your voice."
Bossuet laughed, "well that may be so, but today I have no need to make up a story." There was a dramatic pause. Lesgle looked around to see if he was getting any attention. "I said:" he raised his voice and looked around to check that people were listening, "that today I don't need to make up stories. Last night, I met a woman" he beamed proudly and a few heads turned. Despite Bossuet's boasting, most of the time he was as loveless as the rest of the group.
Lesgle recited the story of his drunken adventures to the group. He explained, in detail, just how he'd managed to meet the beautiful girl who smelt of money. He finished in the bedroom after describing, in detail, the events of the previous night. He smirked triumphantly and leaned back in the seat.
"Her name was Chantal" he sighed wistfully, "but we were so busy she didn't even find out my name."
Courfeyrac smirked, "what an unfortunate occurrence. That means that should we happen to meet the fabulous Chantal we won't even be able to check to story. You cover your tracks admirably, M. Bossuet."
Bossuet opened his mouth to speak but found himself unable to come up with a substantial reply other then "ah well- ehm... uh..." His mouth opened and closed a few times in a remarkable display of speechlessness. Courfeyrac continued, triumphant.
"Well excuse my doubts, Eagle, but I find it difficult to believe that a woman of such apparent high birth would be so desperate for entertainment that she would stoop quite so low. And that she just happened to overlook the slight detail of asking your name? It's just a little difficult to believe, wouldn't you agree?"
This speech drew nods of agreement from the assorted students. Bossuet nodded dumbly and, feeling slightly deflated, went to speak to Joly. Just as he sat down, the young medical student (who had up until then been studying Jean Prouvaire's poems) sneezed violently all over the crisp paper and copperplate handwriting. Prouvaire looked up, aghast, seized the small notebook and stormed off. Bossuet laughed and sat next to Joly, clapping him amicably on the back. This triggered a full-blown sneezing fit and Bossuet edged away for a few moments while his friend blew his nose.
Finally, Lesgle felt brave enough to approach Joly. He sat down tentatively beside his friend, "feeling better?"
Joly nodded groggily, "it's my nose. I've got a cold coming on."
"I see" he paused for thought, "Were you listening just now? Did you hear about Chant- the young woman?"
"I got the impression that you were telling tales again. At least this time you kept them focused on yourself." Lesgle thought he detected a hint of bitterness in the remark, but it was probably the cold. Joly was often much more difficult to cope with when sick.
"No!" He explained, "I met a beautiful young lady and I spent the night at her house and she was beautiful and rich and perfect and her name was Chantal. You do believe me, don't you?"
Joly didn't reply for a long time. Finally he smiled indulgently, "I'm not feeling all that sick," he said, "perhaps you would like me to examine your head for you?"
Bossuet laughed, "It is very typical!" He exclaimed, "fortune finally favours me with a woman and nobody will believe she exists! I had a feeling this business was too perfect to be true."
Joly laughed too. Bossuet produced a bottle of Absinthe and, if only for the reason Absinthe is very good for colds, they both enjoyed several glasses of it.
***
"'Chetta? 'Chetta!"
Musichetta scraped her dirty blonde hair into a ribbon and hurried downstairs to where she found her beau waiting. In an uncharacteristic, and frankly disturbing, fit of affection he scooped her up into his arms and kissed her. The kiss was unnaturally long and she worried abstractedly if his blatant overestimation of the human respiratory system would really make a successful doctor. Finally, gasping for breath, she managed to disentangle herself.
"Good lord, Joly! Have you been drinking?"
"A little" he grinned again and burst into peals of laughter. Musichetta had often been disturbed by Joly's laugh. Instead of a manly boom it was more of a tinkling snicker. She winced and frowned at him and his eyes shone with a rare mischievous gleam, "I would never have thought you the type to play tricks on my friends! Now what made you go and do such a thing, 'Chetta?"
She paused warily, "what are you talking about, dear?"
"Don't be a tease," a quick kiss, "you know precisely what I'm talking about. You never told me that you kept your mother's silk dress." Kiss, "it was tremendously funny, by the way," kiss, "worked like a dream!" Kiss, kiss, kiss.
Musichetta appeared slightly taken aback, Joly was rarely quite as animated as this. "I think you're a little confused. I haven't been playing jokes-" she fought off another round of kisses, "One moment, please! I think you must be thinking about someone else."
Joly pouted but, to Musichetta's relief, refrained from trying to kiss her again. Despite her fondness for the young student, she had to acknowledge that his (fortunately rare) fits of passion were very difficult to cope with. Joly, never the best at adapting to change, was not a person who suffered from mood swings. Bossuet had often remarked that Joly preferred to find an emotion and stick to it.
Joly's amours, on the other hand, were inclined to flip on and off at random intervals. This meant that he was completely unprepared when he was suddenly struck by passion and, being uncertain how to react, would simply do whatever came naturally - no matter how bizarre the resulting behaviour may appear. Thus far he had startled both Musichetta and Lesgle with sudden, unexpected fits of passion.
Now, however, Joly suddenly managed to control his affections. He had seemed lost in thought and suddenly looked up, fixing Musichetta with an unusually attentive expression.
"Chantal."
"Chantal?"
"Chantal - that's the pseudonym you used when you wrote to Enjolras." He beamed, abandoning any control he may have had up until then and wrapped his arms around her, "You mustn't deny it, 'Chetta, I'm trying to thank you!"
Musichetta smiled slowly, "I thought you might have been annoyed. I knew you had been upset at Bossuet earlier but I wasn't sure if you would have appreciated my way of teaching him a lesson."
Joly laughed, "it was certainly unorthodox, but it would appear that you know our Eagle better than you let on." Joly leaned in for another kiss but was interrupted by a sudden sneeze. Musichetta winced with a mixture of relief and disgust as Joly's amours melted away in favour of the much more familiar feelings of nausea.
"Tea?"
"Please."
She nodded and they moved to the kitchen. While the kettle was boiling, Joly leaned on the table and stared at the work-roughened grisette.
"I find it difficult to believe that you could pass yourself off as a wealthy young woman."
She smiled enigmatically, "ah, you haven't seen me in rouge, have you? Besides, he was drunk."
"I see" he watched as she poured the tea, "did you happen to..." he paused, suddenly nervous, "last night did you and Bossuet-" he trailed off and dropped his eyes uneasily.
Musichetta shook her head, "clearly you don't know our Eagle as well as you think - he was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow!"
Joly nodded and, feeling slightly more reassured, sipped his tea.
"Musichetta?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I meet Chantal?"
"Perhaps."
Joly nodded again and decided that next time he'd have to ensure that he was the one who needed to be taught a lesson.
***
Author's note: Hmm, for some reason I'd had this little idea lying around for a while.
Yes it was bizarre. No I have no idea where it came from and no I'm not sure why my Joly and Musichetta have such a weird relationship. And no I don't know how Musichetta managed to afford all that stuff either. However, that was my ever-so-slightly improbable little story. Thanks for reading *grin*
Creak. Squeal. Slam.
So much for subtlety, Joly thought as he trailed behind Bossuet into the café. He was still trying to think of an excuse for their third late arrival in the week when Bossuet launched into his explanation.
"Sorry I'm late, mes amis, but you'll never believe what happened on the way here." Lesgle glanced at Joly and grinned when the assorted students' attention slowly shifted from Enjolras to the two men standing in the doorway. Joly flushed and tugged at his friend's sleeve uneasily.
"Bossuet, save your stories for later, let's just sit down for now."
"Ah but Joly, you are far too modest! I was just about to tell these good people how you saved that pretty grisette's life!"
"But-" Joly opened his mouth but found that once again Bossuet wasn't listening. He turned to face his enraptured audience and began.
"You see, we were taking a short stroll along the Seine, it's very pretty this time of year, isn't it? Hmm? Well that's just what we were saying, Joly was remarking on how lovely the weather was and I was commenting on how lovely the women were." Someone laughed, "yes I've often told Joly that he needs to sort out his priorities. He's a silly boy" he paused enticingly and Joly cursed his friend's ability to twist the slightest occurrence into something crude, "but today, he was also a very lucky boy...
"Just as we were walking along, minding our own business, what should we come across? A very pretty girl in a considerable amount of pain, that's who. And who better than our young doctor to help her?"
The young doctor in question was currently trying to disappear back through the door again but immediately Bossuet shot out a hand and imperceptibly clasped his arm. Joly was surprised to find that his friend was stronger than he appeared but he didn't have long to contemplate this because immediately he felt himself being jerked forward in front of Bossuet and forced to face a group of unruly students who suddenly seemed to be looking at him with a new respect. Joly gulped and suddenly had a feeling he should've listened more carefully to his friend's story.
"What was it like?" someone called out. 'Did you see anything?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Joly noticed that Enjolras was watching disapprovingly from the corner. The taller man was, despite his attempts to appear aloof and disinterested in such petty things, clearly very put out by Joly and Bossuet suddenly becoming centre of attention. Joly found himself caught up in a whirl of questions to which he couldn't possibly answer.
"Was she pretty?"
"Was she grateful?" The tone of the question implied that the girl in question probably had a more enjoyable way of showing her gratitude than most. Joly flushed again as the question, which remained unanswered, was met with roars of approval.
"Is that why you're looking so untidy?" Courfeyrac called out and the group laughed again. Joly looked around and found that Bossuet had disappeared into a corner of the room and was chatting nonchalantly with some nondescript student. He attempted a fierce glare in Bossuet's direction but only managed a sort of irritated sniff.
The group of students still seemed to be closing in and he was suddenly feeling decidedly claustrophobic. He could feel their breath dangerously close to his skin. So close, in fact, that it was causing his spectacles to mist up. He pushed backwards but found that they were behind him too. He was starting to panic. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't think. All he could hear was the constant pounding of lewd questions. His eyes danced crazily around the room searching for some sort of escape. He had a horrible feeling that if he didn't get out soon he'd scream. Oh Lord. Didn't these idiots remember anything? He hated crowds. And it was getting very crowded. Oh-
He almost screamed. He had been dangerously close. Prouvaire, of all people, came to his rescue. The poet had stayed away from Bossuet's latest inane fantasy. He had chanced to look up from his notebook and realised with mild disinterest that the latest adventure happened to involve the twitchy young medic who tagged along with the bald idiot. He also noticed that Joly was looking a little too uncomfortable for one who was being held in such high regard by the group. Suddenly a thought occurred to him - he had remembered Joly's claustrophobia. Briefly abandoning his superior attitude in favour of an opportunity for heroism, Jean Prouvaire battled his way, as best he could, to the centre of the group.
"Stand back!" he ordered, "you people disgrace us all."
Joly looked up, blinked a few times and realised that the immense crowd he had been so frightened of only really consisted of four or five students. He considered trying to explain that it was all a misunderstanding and that he was really late because Lesgle had insisted on stopping at the Corinth on the way to Musain. Instead he pulled off his spectacles and began to wipe them on his waistcoat.
"Now" Prouvaire looked about the group, his voice rising to an unexpectedly powerful tone, "you should all be ashamed of yourselves. Adrian here has performed a heroic deed, for a young lady, no less. He is a credit to the republic and yet you people turn it into something shameful." He paused thoughtfully, "what exactly did you cure her of?" he asked.
"A damaged rectum!" called a helpful voice and again the group exploded into raucous laughter.
Now it was Prouvaire's turn to blush. He glanced at Joly who was staring resolutely at the floor and he looked up at the students who still seemed excited. He looked around again, at a loss for what to say to such a crude remark. Suddenly Prouvaire had the distinct impression that he may have been better off attempting heroics when there were no private matters involved.
A louder voice suddenly broke in on the group: "And you all believed that?" It seemed to come from nowhere but they soon turned to see Bossuet standing by a table and grinning from ear to ear.
"Honestly citizens, do you forget who you are looking at? This is Joly! Joly who couldn't get close to a grisette because he'd probably be allergic to the wool in her blouse." Joly gaped as, with remarkably little effort, Lesgle diverted all the attention in the room onto himself. It was so very like Bossuet, the young medic reflected, that he manages to systematically drop me into and then pull me out of trouble so easily. He sighed and left the café, leaving an irritated Enjolras, a bored and aloof Prouvaire and a chatty Bossuet.
***
Lesgle de meaux left the café late at night. Joly had left early and in his friend's absence Lesgle had drunk a lot of wine, told a lot of stories and was by now convinced of two things: one, that everyone had forgotten Joly's little adventure; and two, that if anyone still believed him after the incident that afternoon they were unlikely to ever believe him again. He chuckled inanely to himself and lurched across the street. A passing gamin considered stopping the strange character and demanding a share of whatever it was he had been drinking but thought better of it when the man started singing. That alone was enough to drive anyone away and even street urchins weren't completely fearless.
The song was loud, tuneless and crude. Lesgle couldn't remember who invented it but he had a vague feeling that it had been Grantaire. Or perhaps Courfeyrac. Come to think of it, it was probably Enjolras in a weaker moment. He threw his head back and laughed at nothing, the force of which sent him stumbling backwards into the gutter.
Lesgle shook himself and tried to figure out what was happening. He completely failed and instead remained sprawled and giggling for a further few minutes. Finally he decided that he needed to go and find Enjolras and so the best way to start would be to get up.
This turned out to be easier said than done and as Lesgle pulled himself halfway to his feet, he immediately fell backwards. He staggered to his knees and was just about to give up in despair when, through the twilight he saw what looked like a figure. He squinted and tried, unsuccessfully, to rise but finally collapsed.
Lesgle's mind was foggy and he couldn't quite think straight so he was completely taken aback when a hand reached down and clasped his. He gripped it and unsteadily pulled himself to his feet. As he rose, he was dimly aware of soft, shimmering folds of cloth that stretched to the ground and clung to a plump shapely form. He blinked as he looked up into the face of his companion and registered a perfect pair of painted cupid bow lips, large chocolate-brown eyes all framed on pale ivory skin. He gazed at the soft golden hair that tumbled in ringlets to lovely, barely covered, shoulders. The intoxicating fragrance of some expensive scent swept around him and enveloped his senses. The rustle of the silk dress and the curve of those lips filled his mind. He stared for what must have been ten minutes and finally found his voice.
"You- you aren't Enjolras."
***
Silk. The sheets were silk too. He awoke in a barely-lit room and found himself surrounded by a sea of shimmering, rustling ecstasy. He lay back for a moment, ignoring the fact that his head was throbbing and that he wasn't entirely certain where he'd left his clothes.
The room was dark, lit only by the scented candles that floated in small tinted-glass bowls. The glass was pink and the light shining through them gave the room a rich, rosy glow. He looked over to the bedside table where he found a small folded card tied with a red satin ribbon. He sat up and lifted it off the table and unfolded it. It was sprayed with the same scent as the woman had worn.
The woman. He was alone now and he suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that something was wrong. It wasn't like him to have such good fortune to be randomly picked up by some sort of wealthy lady for no reason at all. Admittedly he had been incredibly drunk and couldn't remember much but still, luck was not usually on his side. Warily, he read the note:
Cherie, Thank you for a wonderful evening. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Your clothes have been washed and pressed; you will find them in the wardrobe.
Merci, Chantal
He reread the note. It wasn't exactly as romantic as he'd hoped and there was no clear invitation to stay. So, contenting himself with the smug knowledge that he wouldn't need to invent an excuse for his delayed arrival today, he pulled on his clothes and left the house, slightly surprised that it didn't take him long to find his way out.
***
Creak. Squeal. Slam.
Someone really ought to fix that door.
Bossuet noted, with slight hint of irritation, that no one seemed concerned about the fact that he was due to arrive three hours ago. Combeferre was explaining something important-sounding to Enjolras who, in turn, was pretending not to listen. Jehan was scribbling on a pad while Joly was peering over his shoulder and sniffling. Courfeyrac sat with Bahorel and Grantaire discussing things that may have seemed profound from a distance but boiled down to wine and women. Marius and Feuilly were discussing the same topic - only in slightly more down to Earth tones. In fact, Bossuet noted, one had to wonder why these people bothered with the revolution at all.
"You fools" he grinned and threw himself down at the table with Grantaire, "if you didn't spend so much time talking about pretty girls you might actually meet one!"
"Quite right" Grantaire nodded, "and if you didn't spend so much time making up stories about pretty girls, you might meet someone who wasn't sick of hearing the sound of your voice."
Bossuet laughed, "well that may be so, but today I have no need to make up a story." There was a dramatic pause. Lesgle looked around to see if he was getting any attention. "I said:" he raised his voice and looked around to check that people were listening, "that today I don't need to make up stories. Last night, I met a woman" he beamed proudly and a few heads turned. Despite Bossuet's boasting, most of the time he was as loveless as the rest of the group.
Lesgle recited the story of his drunken adventures to the group. He explained, in detail, just how he'd managed to meet the beautiful girl who smelt of money. He finished in the bedroom after describing, in detail, the events of the previous night. He smirked triumphantly and leaned back in the seat.
"Her name was Chantal" he sighed wistfully, "but we were so busy she didn't even find out my name."
Courfeyrac smirked, "what an unfortunate occurrence. That means that should we happen to meet the fabulous Chantal we won't even be able to check to story. You cover your tracks admirably, M. Bossuet."
Bossuet opened his mouth to speak but found himself unable to come up with a substantial reply other then "ah well- ehm... uh..." His mouth opened and closed a few times in a remarkable display of speechlessness. Courfeyrac continued, triumphant.
"Well excuse my doubts, Eagle, but I find it difficult to believe that a woman of such apparent high birth would be so desperate for entertainment that she would stoop quite so low. And that she just happened to overlook the slight detail of asking your name? It's just a little difficult to believe, wouldn't you agree?"
This speech drew nods of agreement from the assorted students. Bossuet nodded dumbly and, feeling slightly deflated, went to speak to Joly. Just as he sat down, the young medical student (who had up until then been studying Jean Prouvaire's poems) sneezed violently all over the crisp paper and copperplate handwriting. Prouvaire looked up, aghast, seized the small notebook and stormed off. Bossuet laughed and sat next to Joly, clapping him amicably on the back. This triggered a full-blown sneezing fit and Bossuet edged away for a few moments while his friend blew his nose.
Finally, Lesgle felt brave enough to approach Joly. He sat down tentatively beside his friend, "feeling better?"
Joly nodded groggily, "it's my nose. I've got a cold coming on."
"I see" he paused for thought, "Were you listening just now? Did you hear about Chant- the young woman?"
"I got the impression that you were telling tales again. At least this time you kept them focused on yourself." Lesgle thought he detected a hint of bitterness in the remark, but it was probably the cold. Joly was often much more difficult to cope with when sick.
"No!" He explained, "I met a beautiful young lady and I spent the night at her house and she was beautiful and rich and perfect and her name was Chantal. You do believe me, don't you?"
Joly didn't reply for a long time. Finally he smiled indulgently, "I'm not feeling all that sick," he said, "perhaps you would like me to examine your head for you?"
Bossuet laughed, "It is very typical!" He exclaimed, "fortune finally favours me with a woman and nobody will believe she exists! I had a feeling this business was too perfect to be true."
Joly laughed too. Bossuet produced a bottle of Absinthe and, if only for the reason Absinthe is very good for colds, they both enjoyed several glasses of it.
***
"'Chetta? 'Chetta!"
Musichetta scraped her dirty blonde hair into a ribbon and hurried downstairs to where she found her beau waiting. In an uncharacteristic, and frankly disturbing, fit of affection he scooped her up into his arms and kissed her. The kiss was unnaturally long and she worried abstractedly if his blatant overestimation of the human respiratory system would really make a successful doctor. Finally, gasping for breath, she managed to disentangle herself.
"Good lord, Joly! Have you been drinking?"
"A little" he grinned again and burst into peals of laughter. Musichetta had often been disturbed by Joly's laugh. Instead of a manly boom it was more of a tinkling snicker. She winced and frowned at him and his eyes shone with a rare mischievous gleam, "I would never have thought you the type to play tricks on my friends! Now what made you go and do such a thing, 'Chetta?"
She paused warily, "what are you talking about, dear?"
"Don't be a tease," a quick kiss, "you know precisely what I'm talking about. You never told me that you kept your mother's silk dress." Kiss, "it was tremendously funny, by the way," kiss, "worked like a dream!" Kiss, kiss, kiss.
Musichetta appeared slightly taken aback, Joly was rarely quite as animated as this. "I think you're a little confused. I haven't been playing jokes-" she fought off another round of kisses, "One moment, please! I think you must be thinking about someone else."
Joly pouted but, to Musichetta's relief, refrained from trying to kiss her again. Despite her fondness for the young student, she had to acknowledge that his (fortunately rare) fits of passion were very difficult to cope with. Joly, never the best at adapting to change, was not a person who suffered from mood swings. Bossuet had often remarked that Joly preferred to find an emotion and stick to it.
Joly's amours, on the other hand, were inclined to flip on and off at random intervals. This meant that he was completely unprepared when he was suddenly struck by passion and, being uncertain how to react, would simply do whatever came naturally - no matter how bizarre the resulting behaviour may appear. Thus far he had startled both Musichetta and Lesgle with sudden, unexpected fits of passion.
Now, however, Joly suddenly managed to control his affections. He had seemed lost in thought and suddenly looked up, fixing Musichetta with an unusually attentive expression.
"Chantal."
"Chantal?"
"Chantal - that's the pseudonym you used when you wrote to Enjolras." He beamed, abandoning any control he may have had up until then and wrapped his arms around her, "You mustn't deny it, 'Chetta, I'm trying to thank you!"
Musichetta smiled slowly, "I thought you might have been annoyed. I knew you had been upset at Bossuet earlier but I wasn't sure if you would have appreciated my way of teaching him a lesson."
Joly laughed, "it was certainly unorthodox, but it would appear that you know our Eagle better than you let on." Joly leaned in for another kiss but was interrupted by a sudden sneeze. Musichetta winced with a mixture of relief and disgust as Joly's amours melted away in favour of the much more familiar feelings of nausea.
"Tea?"
"Please."
She nodded and they moved to the kitchen. While the kettle was boiling, Joly leaned on the table and stared at the work-roughened grisette.
"I find it difficult to believe that you could pass yourself off as a wealthy young woman."
She smiled enigmatically, "ah, you haven't seen me in rouge, have you? Besides, he was drunk."
"I see" he watched as she poured the tea, "did you happen to..." he paused, suddenly nervous, "last night did you and Bossuet-" he trailed off and dropped his eyes uneasily.
Musichetta shook her head, "clearly you don't know our Eagle as well as you think - he was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow!"
Joly nodded and, feeling slightly more reassured, sipped his tea.
"Musichetta?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I meet Chantal?"
"Perhaps."
Joly nodded again and decided that next time he'd have to ensure that he was the one who needed to be taught a lesson.
***
Author's note: Hmm, for some reason I'd had this little idea lying around for a while.
Yes it was bizarre. No I have no idea where it came from and no I'm not sure why my Joly and Musichetta have such a weird relationship. And no I don't know how Musichetta managed to afford all that stuff either. However, that was my ever-so-slightly improbable little story. Thanks for reading *grin*