Courfeyrac studied his leader's features with barely concealed hilarity. Enjolras' tall frame was stooped slightly, and he was obliged to lean on his walking stick for support. His facial features were withered and wrinkled and now sported a couple of moles and an impressive age spot on his brow. The lips that had made so many young girls giggle and titter with fanciful anticipation were now shriveled and parted revealing a mouth with gaps hither and yon, where teeth used to be. Enjolras' golden mane had turned white and wispy, barely covering any of his plate.
"You're bald!" Courfeyrac blurted out, obnoxiously.
Enjolras hit him across the shoulders with his walking stick, leaning against a wall for support. Courfeyrac had enthusiasm about everything he did, which was wonderful when one was planning revolutions. However, there were times when Courfeyrac could be quite maddening.
Courfeyrac was still grinning as he rubbed his shoulders. "Now, now, grandpere, you know what the doctor said about exerting yourself."
"Courfeyrac," Enjolras winced at how his voice quavered in typical elderly man fashion, "if you do not stop making a complete jackanapes out of yourself, and start helping me right this instant, when I do get back to myself I am going to wring your neck for pleasure."
"You would not be the first. Nor the last." Courfeyrac quipped, unfazed by the entirely valid threat of bodily harm. "Fine. Come along, grandpere Hector, let us find a place to have a bite to eat, and then set about getting you back to your menacingly majestic self."
"Eat? How can you think about eating at a time like this?" Enjolras asked, swatting away the arm that Courfeyrac offered for support. He then staggered and was compelled to take it.
"I'm hungry." Courfeyrac said simply. "I'll buy you something as well, of course."
"You are beyond belief, Christophe." Enjolras muttered as Courfeyrac bouncingly led him down the streets. He didn't have much time to reflect on the odd personality of his friend. Enjolras discovered that with every step he took, his joints cried out in protest. He was forced to do an odd kind of shuffle at Courfeyrac's side, and even at that deliberate pace, aches and pains assaulted him from his limbs. To make matters worse, his vision had never entirely cleared, and it occurred to him that he was in desperate need of spectacles.
Despite his poor vision, Enjolras had no trouble in recognizing the structure that Courfeyrac eventually led him to. "Corinth?" He gasped in between wheezes. Courfeyrac drug him inside and up the stairs, where a group of familiar figures stood smoking and playing billiards.
"Good day, fellows!" Courfeyrac greeted.
"Good day, Courfeyrac." Joly and Jean Prouvaire echoed.
"Who's the war relic?" Bahorel inquired with his usual tact.
Enjolras glared at Bahorel. "I have told you, time and time again, that despite the older generation's aversion to change, we should still treat them with respect them and treat them with kindness. They have seen '93, they have tasted it, and then had it taken away, Bahorel, and for that alone we need to respect them." He broke off into a wheezing sort of cough again.
Prouvaire, Joly, and Bahorel looked at Courfeyrac, hoping for a rational explanation. Then they thought better of it and looked at Enjolras instead. In the mass of wrinkles and odd growths it was impossible to pick out Enjolras' youthful visage. However, for this trio of doubting Thomases, it was the eyes that quelled their hesitation. The sharp blue eyes were unmistakably those of their leader.
Enjolras felt palpable relief as his friends expressions changed from those of hesitation to those of recognition.