Bahorel looked amused.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, fine…"
"It's late."
"Mmhmm."
Combeferre wanted to leave but he could tell Bahorel wanted him to stay.
He slid into a chair.
"So how was your day? Good and comic?
Bahorel looked rueful.
"Not in the least. Feuilly and I had a philosophic talk about the prices of paintings."
"Sounds very philosophic. Whose paintings?"
"His."
"Ah."
"So who were you talking to?"
"Grantaire."
"Really? Why ever?"
Combeferre eyed him.
"No real reason. In a few days I will hear rumors flying about that I talked with Grantaire, and all the rumors say it wasn't you who told so?"
"No. I keep secrets well."
Combeferre looked amused
"Really?"
Bahorel studied Combeferre's face.
"You insult me. You'll never make a proper philosopher until you can understand human nature. And you can't, either, not right, at least. I heard you talking to Enjolras the other day. You said you thought me too enthusiastic and maybe rash. You need to do better than that. Who do you think I am? Who do you think Bossuet is? You judge all of us by what you see. Whatever you see first, that's how you think of us. Except maybe Enjolras. You care for him some. And we judged you. We said that you've always been much too kind and helpful and we've said you needed to be on your own more instead of always helping someone, but you're not like that really. No matter what I say I won't be telling you who you are. I couldn't tell myself who I am either, because I don't know. People don't stay one way. Sometimes they do. But not in such a way that you could say 'Bahorel will always love disrupting the peace and will always love a good laugh and will always love laughing and sharing a bottle of wine with his friends'. *You* could've said that. Isn't that what you think of me? Fun loving. Like Courfeyrac, only violent?
"But even if I am that way now, will I be that way forever? If I live five years more and survive seeing young men like myself die will I still be eager to see more die? Maybe philosophy about different ways to live your life. Different standards, practices. Methods. Ideals. And maybe that's why you look at us that way. And I know everyone looks at the world with personal bias. I do. Even when I'm trying to make an argument I keep showing it. But you can't judge people when you first see them. Why do you have to judge us? I know I pretend to speak for the Amis, but I'm really speaking for myself. I have ideals too, Combeferre, even if they're different. Even if you and Enjolras think Courfeyrac and Grantaire and I have such loose Standards, you don't know it. Perhaps Bahorel would like to be serious. Perhaps Bahorel will read tragedies. Perhaps he'll study art. But you don't accept that. You read about a Comedy on a sign posted somewhere so you go to Bahorel and tell there's something that looks his sort. Does he ever say anything deep? Would you come to him with a question?"
Combeferre sighed.
"You don't understand-"
"What makes you think that?"
"Because you don't! We come to you when there's something funny happening because you never tell people you like meaningful things!"
"But if I ever tell anyone that I like that sort, do you think they would ever stop telling me about myself?"
Combeferre shivered. "Hypocrite."
"Well, it's true."
"Perhaps it is. You're still a hypocrite. But why would we bring questions to you when you'd as soon laugh as answer?"
Bahorel sighed.
"How did this conversation get turned around?"
"You did it. You were originally talking of my faults then you began talking about your own troubles."
Combeferre knew these were things he oughtn't say. Things that Bahorel realized by himself and when they were said out loud embarrassed him.
But over the last few days, things had changed. Before he had never wanted conflict. Before he wanted to make things work smoothly.
Now he supposed it was too complicated to just be pleasant all the time.
Bahorel looked weary.
"We all talk of our own troubles. And I'm sorry to offend you. What are your troubles? Would you like to talk of your own? I'll listen."
Combeferre felt as tired as Bahorel looked.
"Jehan…" He murmured.
He saw Bahorel tense.
He immediately felt awake.
"Y-you know him?"
Bahorel looked amused.
"Yes. The poet. Where's he gotten to, anyway? I have some of his poetry at home."
"You *what*? Can I see?"
"You mean may you follow me home? Why do you care? He wrote loads for you anyway."
Combeferre felt rather awful.
"He's gone."
Bahorel's eyes widened.
"I'm so sorry. If I'd known-"
"He's not dead."
Bahorel looked blank.
Combeferre sighed.
"Grantaire… got rid of him."
"He what?"
"He…"
Combeferre gestured helplessly.
"He got rid of him. He magiced him away."
Bahorel quickly stood looking a little worried.
"Shush, 'Ferre, it's all right."
Combeferre bristled.
"Oh, don't act all kindly, it's true. You just think that you can lecture me about myself then suddenly become all wise. I'm not mad. Grantaire told me. He told me just a moment ago. He was-"
"Drunk?"
"*You* ask him then if you want to know. Maybe he *was* drunk. But can *you* tell me why none of the Amis know who Jehan is? Can you explain why no one has any of his poetry?"
"I still have his poetry"
"God dammit, Bahorel, all of the rest is gone! For the last year no one has said anything about him! He's just gone!"
"Is he dead?"
"*No*! I told you! He's just gone!"
Bahorel sighed.
"It's late," he said "and your wasting my time."
Combeferre looked gloomily at him, then turned to the door.
"I'll be going now, shall I?"
"No, by all means you may stay. But I'm leaving. Bonne nuit."
And he was gone.
Combeferre watched the door.
He longed for Jehan to be there.
To be taken into Jehan's arms.
To have him tell him about the poem he wrote.
Combeferre left for his apartment.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, fine…"
"It's late."
"Mmhmm."
Combeferre wanted to leave but he could tell Bahorel wanted him to stay.
He slid into a chair.
"So how was your day? Good and comic?
Bahorel looked rueful.
"Not in the least. Feuilly and I had a philosophic talk about the prices of paintings."
"Sounds very philosophic. Whose paintings?"
"His."
"Ah."
"So who were you talking to?"
"Grantaire."
"Really? Why ever?"
Combeferre eyed him.
"No real reason. In a few days I will hear rumors flying about that I talked with Grantaire, and all the rumors say it wasn't you who told so?"
"No. I keep secrets well."
Combeferre looked amused
"Really?"
Bahorel studied Combeferre's face.
"You insult me. You'll never make a proper philosopher until you can understand human nature. And you can't, either, not right, at least. I heard you talking to Enjolras the other day. You said you thought me too enthusiastic and maybe rash. You need to do better than that. Who do you think I am? Who do you think Bossuet is? You judge all of us by what you see. Whatever you see first, that's how you think of us. Except maybe Enjolras. You care for him some. And we judged you. We said that you've always been much too kind and helpful and we've said you needed to be on your own more instead of always helping someone, but you're not like that really. No matter what I say I won't be telling you who you are. I couldn't tell myself who I am either, because I don't know. People don't stay one way. Sometimes they do. But not in such a way that you could say 'Bahorel will always love disrupting the peace and will always love a good laugh and will always love laughing and sharing a bottle of wine with his friends'. *You* could've said that. Isn't that what you think of me? Fun loving. Like Courfeyrac, only violent?
"But even if I am that way now, will I be that way forever? If I live five years more and survive seeing young men like myself die will I still be eager to see more die? Maybe philosophy about different ways to live your life. Different standards, practices. Methods. Ideals. And maybe that's why you look at us that way. And I know everyone looks at the world with personal bias. I do. Even when I'm trying to make an argument I keep showing it. But you can't judge people when you first see them. Why do you have to judge us? I know I pretend to speak for the Amis, but I'm really speaking for myself. I have ideals too, Combeferre, even if they're different. Even if you and Enjolras think Courfeyrac and Grantaire and I have such loose Standards, you don't know it. Perhaps Bahorel would like to be serious. Perhaps Bahorel will read tragedies. Perhaps he'll study art. But you don't accept that. You read about a Comedy on a sign posted somewhere so you go to Bahorel and tell there's something that looks his sort. Does he ever say anything deep? Would you come to him with a question?"
Combeferre sighed.
"You don't understand-"
"What makes you think that?"
"Because you don't! We come to you when there's something funny happening because you never tell people you like meaningful things!"
"But if I ever tell anyone that I like that sort, do you think they would ever stop telling me about myself?"
Combeferre shivered. "Hypocrite."
"Well, it's true."
"Perhaps it is. You're still a hypocrite. But why would we bring questions to you when you'd as soon laugh as answer?"
Bahorel sighed.
"How did this conversation get turned around?"
"You did it. You were originally talking of my faults then you began talking about your own troubles."
Combeferre knew these were things he oughtn't say. Things that Bahorel realized by himself and when they were said out loud embarrassed him.
But over the last few days, things had changed. Before he had never wanted conflict. Before he wanted to make things work smoothly.
Now he supposed it was too complicated to just be pleasant all the time.
Bahorel looked weary.
"We all talk of our own troubles. And I'm sorry to offend you. What are your troubles? Would you like to talk of your own? I'll listen."
Combeferre felt as tired as Bahorel looked.
"Jehan…" He murmured.
He saw Bahorel tense.
He immediately felt awake.
"Y-you know him?"
Bahorel looked amused.
"Yes. The poet. Where's he gotten to, anyway? I have some of his poetry at home."
"You *what*? Can I see?"
"You mean may you follow me home? Why do you care? He wrote loads for you anyway."
Combeferre felt rather awful.
"He's gone."
Bahorel's eyes widened.
"I'm so sorry. If I'd known-"
"He's not dead."
Bahorel looked blank.
Combeferre sighed.
"Grantaire… got rid of him."
"He what?"
"He…"
Combeferre gestured helplessly.
"He got rid of him. He magiced him away."
Bahorel quickly stood looking a little worried.
"Shush, 'Ferre, it's all right."
Combeferre bristled.
"Oh, don't act all kindly, it's true. You just think that you can lecture me about myself then suddenly become all wise. I'm not mad. Grantaire told me. He told me just a moment ago. He was-"
"Drunk?"
"*You* ask him then if you want to know. Maybe he *was* drunk. But can *you* tell me why none of the Amis know who Jehan is? Can you explain why no one has any of his poetry?"
"I still have his poetry"
"God dammit, Bahorel, all of the rest is gone! For the last year no one has said anything about him! He's just gone!"
"Is he dead?"
"*No*! I told you! He's just gone!"
Bahorel sighed.
"It's late," he said "and your wasting my time."
Combeferre looked gloomily at him, then turned to the door.
"I'll be going now, shall I?"
"No, by all means you may stay. But I'm leaving. Bonne nuit."
And he was gone.
Combeferre watched the door.
He longed for Jehan to be there.
To be taken into Jehan's arms.
To have him tell him about the poem he wrote.
Combeferre left for his apartment.
