And The Dream of Paris Preys on My Bones

Chapter 12: The Devil With English

Chauvelin furrowed his brow in concentration and carefully repositioned himself. He didn't want to mess this up, and he certainly didn't want to hurt Coupeau doing it. After all, if he were to do something incorrectly, it could hurt the small boy under him quite badly, he imagined, and he certainly did not want to do that. Flushing slightly and breathing a bit faster, he managed to gasp, "Alright. What now?"

Coupeau whimpered a bit, tried to move to be a bit more comfortable, but his legs were tangled with the other boy's, and it was a bit difficult. Looking back at the boy, he softly said, "Your hand needs to go there…"

"Oh. Alright." He leaned a bit closer to the boy, pushed forward, and the auburn-haired man gasped slightly, and Chauvelin stopped. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"No. Keep going."

Nodding and much more gentle than before, Chauvelin carefully reached over and softly placed his hand on thespot the boy indicated. "Here?"

Coupeau shook his head. "No, a little further…"

Grunting in effort, he did as he was told. "Here?"

"Keep going. I'll tell you when." The dark haired boy complied, and Coupeau watched him intently, moving as best he could as to help the softly grunting boy with his task. "There! That's the spot!"

Just then, the door swung open, and Mercier stood there, staring in shock at his two comrades, their bodies tangled together. "What are you two doing?"

"Playing a game!" the two boys chirped, both falling down and laughing hysterically.

"That's a game?" Mercier asked sceptically. "How do you play?"

"Well," Coupeau said, standing up and brushing himself off, "you see the colored dots on the ground? You pick a spot and an arm or a leg, and the other person must try to put that body part on it."

"It's quite difficult," Chauvelin said, patting a blue dot that they had painted on the floor. "You get tangled up with the other person, and it makes it very difficult to reach."

"Wait, hold on." Mercier said, gripping his head. He leftfor fifteen minutes…those boys couldn't be left alone. "You put your hands on colored dots on the floor?"

Coupeau nodded happily. "I invented it!"

"That's the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Who would want to play something like that?"

"It's fun," Chauvelin said, laying down on the ground. "It's actually the best thing that Coupeau has ever come up with. Lots of fun at a party, I would imagine. Think of how easy it would be to 'fall down' on top of a girl this way. It's a great game! I imagine it will catch on very quickly."

"Chauvelin, really. Colored dots? No one in their right mind would ever play that."

Chauvelin shrugged. "Ah well. It seemed like a good idea. Oh!" He quickly got to his feet and ran to the table, rummaging through a heap of papers. "I made a new commandment."

"Chauvelin, do we really need any more?" Coupeau asked quietly, tapping his foot upon a red dot on the floor. "We already have three…"

"Yes, and how many does God have? Ten? Coupeau, we must at least match that." Pulling out the paper that he was searching for, he cleared his throat and read, "Commandment four: Thou shall avoid the church and its water-throwing priests as though they have the plague."

"But, Chauvelin," Coupeau said quietly, "they don't have the plague."

"As though they have the plague, you stupid boy! As though! What's wrong with you?" He opened his mouth to answer, but Chauvelin waived his hand and quickly said, "No, no. Never mind. Don't answer that." Peering at the two boys, he slowly drawled, "Alright. Good rule, yes?"

Mercier shrugged. "That's not much different from what we already do. I don't see how it hurts to make a rule out of it."

"I don't like it, Chauvelin!"

"Too bad. Two to one, we outvote you."

Coupeau blinked at the smug boy in confusion. "You what?"

"You know. Voted?" Chauvelin said, annoyed. "What the majority of the group says is what happens." His chest swelling, he proudly stated, "I invented it! It's a great idea, isn't it? I imagine all of France will be using my idea once they hear about it!"

"Is this anything like your liberte, egalite, fraternite idea?" Mercier asked in a horribly cynical tone. "Because if it is, you know as well as I that it's never going to happen."

"So you don't think that my 'Get rid of the King' plan is going to work either then, huh?"

"No. No, not ever."

"Damned shame. I had such a great idea of how to go about doing it too." Chauvelin looked between the two boys and sighed heavily. "Oh, boys, you ruin all my fun. There is nothing to do in this stupid place. Let's leave."

"What?" Coupeau asked, a touch shocked. He knew that he wanted to leave, but… "Chauvelin, must we? I've…I've actually come to like Calais. Quite a bit."

"Actually, yes, we're leaving. Now. Come, get your things."

"Chauvelin, now? Oh please, just a bit longer!"

The pale-eyed boy groaned and plunked down in the chair. "Fine. A bit longer wouldn't hurt, I suppose. And I have been neglecting to learn English, and I can only insult people. I may as well learn the rest now. We leave as soon as I am fluent and literate." The two boys sighed in relief, and Chauvelin picked up a book. "That means a week at the most."

"A week, Chauvelin?" Mercier asked before laughing out loud. "Good heavens, what are you thinking? It took you longer than that to just learn to read and write your own language, let alone learning an entirely new one!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mercier," Chauvelin said dispassionately, eyes quickly scanning the text of the book. "French is an elaborate and complicated language. Of course it took a while to learn. But English, what is that? Honestly, if the British can speak it, how hard can it be?"

A defeated sigh. "Whatever you say, Chauvelin."

"Good. And now, if you boys will be so kind as to excuse me, I have a language to learn." Propping his feet upon the table, he leaned back and quietly perused the book, occasionally flipping the pages, sometimes scowling in frustration or grinning in delight.

Watching the boy for a few moments in silence, Mercier and Coupeau looked at each other, shrugged, and left the house to find something to do while their esteemed leader wrestled with English. "Do you suppose," Coupeau asked after they walked to the dock in silence, "that what Chauvelin says will ever happen?"

"Hmm? Like what?"

"You know, voting, equality for the people, that sort of thing."

Mercier shook his head. "I hope, but I doubt it. The aristocrats won't give up their power willingly, and they could crush and sort of rebellion or fight we put up. They do so all the time anyway."

"But we have more people!" Coupeau cried excitedly. "There are thousands of us and not many aristos. If we all just came together and fight-"

"They have the military, Coupeau. The whole damn army. And what do we have? A couple dirty kids with a hat. Yeah, some leaders of the people."

"Chauvelin can read…"

"Great. We'll throw clever words at the military. Oh, I am quite sure they will be frightened beyond compare."

He cast his eyes at the ground and they walked in silence again to the end of the pier, sat down, and dangled their feet over the edge. "What do you think Paris is like?" Coupeau asked quietly.

"Big, I suppose. I imagine we shall know soon."

"Do you think that England is over there?" the green eyed boy asked, pointing across the water.

"One can only assume."

Coupeau grinned and rocked back and forth. "This is the closest I have ever been to another country! Do you think we will ever go to England?"

"No," Mercier said flatly. "No, never. Chauvelin hates the English too much, and we have no reason to leave France. No sir, no England for us."

"Oh. Well, that's too bad." Coupeau said, actually a bit sadly.

"And why is that?"

Coupeau pointed back to a place where a large yacht was tied. "That boy over there I think was speaking English. He's kinda cute. I should like to meet him."

Mercier fell back, his head hitting the dock with a thud. "That's all you ever think about, isn't it?"

"All you and Chauvelin ever think about is women!" Coupeau cried in his defence. "How is this any different from what you do?"

"I don't know, Coupeau…" Mercier groaned, putting his hand over his eyes to block out the sun. "Maybe because we are at least acting in a normal fashion?"

"I'm going to go talk to him," Coupeau said, standing up and turning around.

"You dolt, if he's English, he probably doesn't speak French. How the hell do you expect to communicate?"

Coupeau stopped, stuttered a bit and modestly sat back down. "I think you have a point there…" Looking back at the boy and frowning slightly, he said, "I guess he probably isn't like me either, huh?"

"Coupeau, no one is quite like you."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." He threw a quick glance back at the boy and whispered, "But what if…" Coupeau quickly stood up and pulled a complaining Mercier to his feet. "Come on. We're going to go ask Chauvelin."

"Ask Chauvelin about what?"

"Idiot, about him!" Coupeau said, pointing to the fair-haired Englishman. "If I can't have Chauvelin, then I want him, and Chauvelin is always really good about seeing what people are up to." Pulling the boy behind him, he flushed slightly as he passed the object of his current swing of affections, and dragged Mercier home.

He threw open the door to find Chauvelin screaming and cursing, a half empty bottle of wine on the table. "I think, Coupeau, we should come back at a later time," Mercier said quietly, nudging the boy back outside, but Coupeau wouldn't budge.

"No, he might not be here later." Bravely marching inside, he asked, "Chauvelin, what's wrong?"

"English! A language so stupid, only idiots can understand! Damn Englishmen and their damn rules…I before E my ass…"

"Chauvelin, I think I found someone for me!"

"Oh good, Coupeau!" he said cheerfully, dropping any previous anger. "Would your mother approve?"

Coupeau's face dropped. "No…"

"Most excellent. Tell me about him," he slurred, plunking down and taking another swig of the wine.

"Um, well, Chauvelin…he's…an Englishman…"

Chauvelin stared at him violently for a moment before shrugging and leaning back. "You have my blessings. All Englishmen are queer, don't you know."

"What?" Mercier said from the doorway. "Chauvelin, no they're not. That's impossible."

"See? There's why you're stupid." Grabbing Coupeau by the arm, he stumbled out of the house. "Come. I'll show you. And I've always wanted to practice my English." Coupeau whimpered; this wasn't going to be good, especially since he wanted to get into the Englishman's pants. This would be bad for his prospects.

They marched out onto the dock, and Chauvelin looked bleary eyed around. "Alright, which one?" Coupeau looked around and timidly pointed to the boy from earlier, now standing at the end of the pier and looking into the water. Puffing his chest in pride and every inch of arrogance he possessed, Chauvelin sauntered to the boy and tapped him on the shoulder. "You're very pretty for a foreigner," he slurred in slightly accented but well-spoken English.

The boy was shocked to say the least, and his light green eyes filled with curiosity as he looked over the slightly swaying Frenchman. Smiling and blushing slightly, he quietly responded, "Why, thank you. You yourself are rather handsome."

"Don't 'imperialist pig' me, my good man!" Chauvelin snapped, thrusting his finger in the boy's face, confusing the boy even more.

"I-I'm terribly sorry," the boy stammered, trying to understand what just happened. "Did I offend you?"

"Oh no, I've always enjoyed simple-minded ethnic humor."

"My good man, I think you have been drinking a bit too much," the boy said cautiously, not wanting to incur whatever fits this man was capable of.

"I may be drunk," the boy said, hiccupping slightly and rocking back and forth, "but tomorrow I'll be sober, and you will still be ugly."

"I would very much like to meet you again when you are sober," the boy said, looking over the dark man again. Digging through his pocket, he withdrew a coin and placed it in the boy's palm.

Chauvelin looked at it, held it up, and was still confused. "How much is this in real money?" Taking note of the boy's look, he quickly said, "No, no, never mind. Where are you from?"

"England."

"Ah, England," Chauvelin said, nodding knowingly. "I have been there once. Your country has such lovely dirt."

"I, well-"

"Stupid uncultured lout," Chauvelin said, grumbling as he walked away, leaving a very shocked boy at the end of the pier.

Coupeau jumped as his friend started walking back. He quickly grabbed his arm and excitedly asked, "Chauvelin, what did he say?"

"I really can't remember, but I can assure you he's homo," Chauvelin slurred as she staggered back to the house. "I'm going to bed. Stupid English…"

Coupeau was elated and ran up to the boy, panting slightly and smiling hopefully. "Je t'aime!"

The boy looked at this new one in utter confusion; he didn't speak French. But still, the boy was attractive…. Returning the smile, he quietly asked, "My good man, I don't speak French. Can you speak English at all?"

Coupeau froze. He had forgotten that he couldn't communicate. "Tu ne parles pas francaise…" he began, but meekly trailed off. Of course he didn't speak French, or the boy would have done so to begin with. "Merde…"

No English. The boy sighed. "Well, so much for that…"

The auburn-haired child panicked. The boy was starting to leave. Not knowing what to do, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and firmly kissed him. The boy quickly pulled away, and Coupeau's face fell as the light green eyes showed nothing but shock, but the boy smiled, and did the same to the small man. They didn't know how long they stood like that, but when they pulled away, they were breathless. Smiling softly, the little Frenchman laid his hand on his chest and softly whispered, "Coupeau."

Looking at him in confusion for a second, the other soon recognized what he was doing and laid his hand upon his own chest. "Elton."

"Elton…" Coupeau grinned and tenderly hugged the boy. After a moment, he pointed toward his house, his head leaning against the other's so that he could make sure he saw where he was pointing.

Understanding what he was trying to do, Elton pointed at the place the other indicated, smiling softly as the dark green eyes lit up. He did the same, and the two had an understanding. Softly kissing him, he gently took his hand for a moment and turned away to fetch his things from his parent's yacht.

Grinning in absolute joy, Coupeau skipped down the pier, grabbing a rather stunned Mercier's hand and pulling him back to the house. He had to tell Chauvelin.

Mercier shook his head. "I don't understand. The queer gets a lover before me. Ridiculous."