A/N: So here is the next one. I am afraid it is nowhere near as shippy as the one before - but I have to switch back to plot first, and I hope with the fluff fics on tumblr in parallel it will be bearable ;-)
The last scene is heavily inspired by a roleplaying scene we once had...
By the way, i was absolutely floored by the responses I got for the last chapter... there was even some beautiful fanart by Hannah that can be found here:
post/67723301114/chapter-52-of-city-of-glass-by-the-awesome-spirit
Hope you like this one as well...
back to some people we haven't seen in a while :-)
Chapter 53: Nobility of various kinds
"Yes, we've disagreed, even fought, but I would rather have someone who opposed me out of an honest belief in the rightness of his cause than someone who is always on my side because it was expected and required."
"Lesgles." The voice was carefully neutral and almost devoid of emotion. "This is a surprise."
Jacques de Morier was obviously feeling better. While still seeming slightly feverish, his eyes were much clearer and he was sitting on the cushions in his bed like a king reigning over his minions.
Given the fact, that about ten members of the Cougourde crowded in the spacious room around their leader, this comparison was probably more accurate than Jacques would admit. Yet, Bossuet did not feel any inclination to reiterate the discussion that Enjolras had apparently had in this very room and preferred to focus on the situation given. Joly, standing next to him, quietly pondered the situation in front of him and possibly the state of health of de Morier himself.
"Morier", he responded the greeting, then looked around to greet personally Barilou and give a nod to the rest of the group, and Joly added, heartfelt: "Glad to see you are better again."
The man in the bed gave a curt nod, carefully pushing himself up to a more upright position. He winced, but the fact alone that he regained some mobility gave hope for recovery.
"I have heard about yesterday's events", he continued without further evasion of the subject, and a quick glance to Barilou, who had taken a seat on one of the empty beds in the room. "I am very sorry for your losses."
For a moment Bossuet was not sure if he could trust Jacques sincerity, but there was a severity about the young man that spoke vehemently in his favor.
Jacques reminded him of many members of his parent's cast, but he was a strange cross of Machiavelli and Rousseau, the ideals of the revolution and the absolutism of a sovereign; the desire to free the people mingled together with a deep distrust of them being ready for freedom.
And yet, Jacques de Morier was not without pity, or compassion. And Bossuet decided that this, in this moment, outweighed any quarrel they might have had. He of all people would know that a streak of luck must be taken while it presented itself.
"Thanks, Morier", he formulated therefore, accompanying the words with another nod of appreciation. "I am glad that none of your friends have come to bigger harm during this event."
"By chance and only by that", Jacques answered. "I am not deluding myself for us to have had any part of it." He took a glass of water from his nightstand and took a deep gulp. One of his friends refilled it as soon as Morier had replaced it on the table, and somehow Bossuet found this gesture grating. "How many deaths have there been?"
It was Joly who answered, before Bossuet could even make up his mind.
"Nine", he said, and knowing him so well Bossuet realized the pain behind the words. "But at least three more have been brought to hospital , to the Hôtel-Dieu, because this was in closer proximity than the Necker. And we are currently trying to reach the other groups to get a clearer overview on the state of affairs."
Jacques nodded.
"Valiant course of action, I should say. A few friends of mine are currently visiting some of our meeting places to determine if any of them might be suitable – but better protected – for a repetition of a similar assembly, but if you want my honest opinion, I have little hope."
"We haven't had a café supporting us, like you have with the Musain or the Corinthe. We've flittered about from place to place", Barilou explained from the other bed. "That might make things a bit more difficult. In addition, it seems as if the news of the Corinthe were spreading like wildfire."
"Literally", Bossuet commented drily and this earned him a few chuckles from the audience.
"Just so", Jacques confirmed. "Yet, it is definitely worth trying."
Bossuet frowned. Jacques de Morier seemed indeed somewhat changed since they last saw him. While the Cougourde had long since cooperated with the Friends of the Abaisse, Jacques had always been careful to keep his own council. And yet, there was no time for the questioning of motives. He decided to count his blessings and take what he was offered.
"Well, that would be something", he said. "I guess you won't leave us in the dark on that as soon as you know?"
"Of course not", Jacques answered. "How can I reach you?"
That indeed was a slightly tricky question. The Musain was out of questions, and either of their apartments would be deserted for most of the day. The Corinthe was no more, and they were quickly running out of refuges.
"Send them to the Dufranc mansion", he finally said. "I heard that Courfeyrac, Marius and Lamarin are there as we speak, to tackle the case of Madame de Cambout."
"The loss of the Musain is felt acutely indeed", Jacques commented. "So yes, this may be one of the safer places, I agree."
His forehead creased in a thoughtful gesture for a moment, but before Bossuet could decide on asking what was on his mind, Jacques continued his speech.
"Speaking of Madame de Cambout…" He frowned. "I have it on good authority"; and a quick gaze to Barilou made very clear who that authority was, "that Le Globe intends to publish a… well, slightly one-sided account of these events?"
"I haven't seen what Combeferre wrote", Bossuet gave back with a grin. "I can hardly imagine him writing anything… one-sided, but it may never be too late for a novelty, I'll admit. "
Jacques shrugged in response.
"The point being that we have to face the fact that whoever our faceless counterparts are, they have seriously moved out of hiding with this one attempt. If we intend to respond in kind, I will support this cause of action, however, we must be aware that we will trigger a reaction that may be larger than this struggle."
"In what sense?" Joly asked, sounding slightly worried.
"This city is a powderkeg, as we all know. This may be the spark that lights it or not, but however this turns out, we would do well to prepare. This is why I have arranged to send several express couriers, dealing with a faithful account of the events of the last days as well as the continuation of our planning to our associates across the country."
Bossuet felt his brows rise.
"That's splendid!" Joly exclaimed, obviously joyful at this turn of events, and Bossuet had to concur that he appreciated de Morier's initiative, even though the young doctor probably did not look far enough.
For of course, this way it would also be his word that reached the places outside Paris first. His words, his interpretation of things. His name. Even bedridden and feverish, Jacques was still clever. In Paris, Enjolras had the upper hand by sheer force of charisma and health, but in the realm of letters and words faraway, nothing was lost.
Clever, he thought. Clever.
"It is", he said, carefully keeping his thoughts out of his voice. "And perhaps we should do the same."
"As I was about to suggest", Jacques nodded, looking at Bossuet and Joly in turn. He seemed slightly self-satisfied and smug, and yet his gaze was awake again, and whether the character of Jacques de Morier might be something to be disputed, his capability was beyond all doubts.
"We'll tell Bahorel and Enjolras about it", Joly answered, half to the Cougourde, half, he suspected, for Bossuet's own benefit. "He has the best contacts to them. Do you really think this will start a revolution?"
Jacques frowned slightly and pondered the question for a moment.
"I tend to say no, but I also tend to say that one never knows. It is difficult to predict and mandatory that we keep an eye on things. And we are in dire need of a meeting place."
"Enjolras is working on it", Bossuet answered. "I we'll know more tomorrow."
Jacques raised a brow.
"Enjolras", he echoed, but then let it go with a shrug. "Well then, we all should wish him success, shouldn't we?"
There was a slight nastiness in his voice, but it was deeply hidden and Bossuet chose to ignore it for the sake of peace.
"Probably yes", he answered therefore, taking Jacques comment for earnest to take the edge out of the conversation. "And it's good to see the Cougourde is back."
"Have we been gone?" Jacques asked drily, leaning back into his cushions, sagging slightly from the effort before, but he seemed to reconsider, for after a moment, with a shrug, he continued. "But yes. It is good to participate again."
This, Courfeyrac thought, as he strolled through the city with Marius Pontmercy, finding their way almost absent-mindedly, deeply discussing already how they would continue with the mess that was Madame de Cambout's situation; this is how lawwork should be.
He had never been very diligent in his studies; feeling rather annoyed by the stuffy boredom that was the lectures of most of the teachers, and failing to see the sense in studying the rules of a system he considered obsolete at best.
Yet he had to admit that with a problem at hand the situation looked somewhat different. Somewhere along their discussions, the paragraphs and rules rather became a very clever game; trying to turn the situation on its head, to use the system against itself.
And that was something he could appreciate.
They were deeply in conversation, when the Dufranc mansion appeared in front of them. Pierre LaManche had proposed that the house of Hélène's parents should serve as their point of contact, and her father had agreed. Even if the professor would not be there at present, information could certainly be exchanged via Hélène's father, and that would be just as well.
Marc Lamarin, who had visited La Force together with Combeferre, would have hopefully arrived already and maybe set to work. The boy was bright, and for some reason had a natural ease in dealing with the paragraphs and the reasonings behind; and he was sure to have sorted out a few new revelations in the mean time.
There was hope yet.
It was only when they were almost upon the mansion, only a few buildings down the street from the entrance, when Courfeyrac froze as he remarked the carriage standing outside the Dufranc residence.
Marius realized his hesitation only moments after, and the baron's son followed Courfeyrac's gaze to the crest that was imprinted on all sides of the vehicle.
"Is that…", he said, a frown deepening on his features at the sight of it.
".. the de Cambout crest, yes", Courfeyrac answered. "Naturally. They've come to town."
"To bury their son." Marius sounded somber, almost sad. "You're right, Courfeyrac. We should have expected that." He frowned for a moment, then turned his gaze to his friend. "You know them, don't you?" the Baron's son asked, curious. "What do we have to expect?"
The smile on Courfeyrac's lips was slightly wry.
"They're friends to my parents", he answered, and Marius knew enough to respond to this with a simple: "Oh", that said everything that needed to be said.
But it was not to be helped, and their plan had been laid out. Lacking better options, Courfeyrac and Marius approached the door and demanded entrance.
They were admitted by the same maid that had allowed them in the last time, and under twittering and showered in a mountain of information they were led into the salon, where apart from Aristide Dufranc and his wife, another person was sitting in another armchair.
Alexandre de Cambout, the elder, looked as if he had aged a hundred years since Courfeyrac last saw him. Admittedly, that had been almost ten years ago, during an event that his parents had organized, and that he had attended as one of his last indulgences of his parents' whims before he left for Paris. Then, Monsieur de Cambout had been a tall man of great vigor and joviality, much like his son in appearance and stance, but much less so in his opinions and views of the world.
And yet, the similarity between father and son had been so great that when a few years later Courfeyrac happened to meet Alexandre in Paris, he had recognized the son immediately for knowing the father.
That man, for all that he was able to say, was gone.
What had been vigorous was now gaunt. De Cambout had been lean when he last met him, athletic despite his age, but since then he had moved to fragility and gauntness. His face had become narrow and the light in his eyes had dimmed to a dulled glow.
Courfeyrac took care not to show any of this on his face. The hour called for his best behavior, and despite his reluctance to comply with outdated morals, respect for his dead friend, if nothing else, prompted the deep, honest bow and sorrowful mien.
"Monsieur de Cambout", he greeted the elderly nobleman, then moving to the hosts giving them much the same courtesy, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Marius – thankfully – was copying his gesture with the habit of one born to it.
All three made to rise in greeting, but Courfeyrac stopped Alexandre's father before he could get very far by means of a shake of his head and a few quick steps towards him.
"No Monsieur… today is not the occasion for me to receive courtesies from you. It is the occasion to convey my deepest, most sincere regrets at your recent loss. I have lost a friend, and it grieves me deeply, but how much more severe must your grief be, seen as you have lost a son? Please accept my condolences, and be assured that you may call on me for any kind of assistance that I am able to provide."
Monsieur de Cambout watched him through narrowed eyes, obviously pondering his response for a moment.
"You always had a way with words, Monsieur de Courfeyrac", he said, and Courfeyrac tried not to wince at the use of the despised particle. "And yet, the sentiments are accepted, and with gratitude."
De Cambout motioned for Courfeyrac to sit, but he, remembering his manners, gave an introduction to Marius Pontmercy first, before both of the law students took seats on the couch and were given a glass of brandy each. The time was still early, but the occasion seemed to merit the drink indeed.
The glass in hand, Courfeyrac took a moment to take in the atmosphere of the situation. The meeting was tricky – the father of the victim in the house of those accused of murder – a family bound by marriage, to make things worse.
There were many pitfalls in the room, and he would try to avoid them as well as he could.
"Messieurs Pontmercy and de Courfeyrac have taken it upon themselves to help Professeur LaManche in the case against my daughter", Aristide Dufranc said cautiously after the pleasantries had been exchanged. He seemed tense, even more so than his wife.
"Ah." The response of Monsieur de Cambout was vague at best, and uncertain in addition. He was thoughtfully glancing in his brandy, and Courfeyrac guessed from the redness of his eyes that he had found little sleep that night. "That is…", he interrupted himself, hesitating for a moment, but finally, as if coming to a conclusion, he got up from his chair and turned towards Aristide Dufranc.
"Monsieur", he said. "I… know that this is unusual, but I would beg to be excused for a moment to have a word with Monsieur de Courfeyrac alone. I hope you will understand."
The legislator frowned softly, but he nodded, rising as well.
"Of course, Monsieur, you need only ask. But please allow us to leave instead of inconveniencing you to move to another location. I am certain, my wife, Monsieur Pontmercy and myself will find another place to continue our discussion while you are otherwise occupied." The man's eyes were alight with worry, and he strayed – very briefly – to Courfeyrac who gave the slightest of shrugs in response. But he honored the wish and soon Marius as well as the two Dufrancs had left the room, and Courfeyrac was left alone with the father of his late friend.
"Monsieur you will excuse my behavior, I hope", Monsieur de Cambout started and took to pacing, restless and uneasy. "While I bear the Dufrancs no ill will, their partiality in this case is to be understood, and I would hope to get a more neutral account from you, who were first and foremost his friend."
Courfeyrac, having gotten up as well seen as the elder man showed no signs of settling any time soon, frowned.
"I will do the best I can, Monsieur", he answered carefully and watched the erratic movements of the man before him.
"So tell me frankly. Do you think it is true? That it was Hélène, who killed him?"
For a moment, Courfeyrac gaped at the man before him, and then swallowed a laugh that seriously threatened to bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest. This would not suit the situation, and yet, the discussion was absurd. He fought for calmer words.
"You will pardon my words, Monsieur, but this is unimaginable. There is no circumstance that I can conceive under which I would think she would have done such a thing?"
De Cambout narrowed his eyes.
"But are you quite certain of that?"
Courfeyrac shook his head.
"Very certain, Monsieur."
De Cambout took to pacing again, restless and uneasy as he spilled out his thoughts in front of Courfeyrac, who was not wholly prepared for such an onslaught.
"I do understand that there was affection involved, at least on the part of my son. But, the rest of it. The paper. When I gave him the paper, it was inclined to the arts. The arts, monsieur. And he made it a den of revolutionaries. The day my son married this woman is the day that my paper turned into something that I barely recognize any more. To appoint the likes of Chevalier or – heavens beware – Enfantin as editors." He shook his head in exasperation. "I tried to reason with him, but he would not be swayed. And just as everything settles, the paper finding its voice, whatever it was, all the key people in place, my son dies. Does that not seem… slightly suspicious to you?"
Courfeyrac felt his anger rise at the mere thought of it – remembering many discussions he had had with Alexandre, and the fire that was burning in him just as strongly as in the rest of his friends. But de Cambout did not give him the time to answer.
"It brings the question to mind – die Hélène just intend to use my son's paper and name? Do not misunderstand me – I liked her well enough; too outspoken of course, but this is to be expected of bourgeoisie in these times, and at least clever, accomplished and somewhat courteous. But there was always an air of a Madame de Stael about her, and we all know how much she even cared for the sentiments of her husband."
Courfeyrac felt his fingers clench, but he decided to take a few deep breaths before responding. Of course Alexandre's father was blinded with grief – this was to be taken into account if one wanted to judge his statements and motives. And of course de Cambout was, currently at least, not being rational about the subject.
Unlike Courfeyrac, Alexandre had been an only child. His father had lost more than just a son.
He decided to answer folly with rationality first.
"With all due respect", Courfeyrac answered with a slightly dry note in his voice, "I feel I have to remind you that Hélène is the only child of a legislator and wealthy industrialist, as you well know. She would not have needed the support or the connection of your son to run a paper if that had been her only goal."
De Cambout stopped his restless wandering to place his hands on the back rest of an armchair before him, fingers clenching, but he still listened.
"No one", Courfeyrac continued more calmly, "can fully determine the heart of another person. But as you know I have spent a lot of time with Hélène and Alexandre, in company and in smaller gatherings, and everything I saw makes me say that Hélène deeply cared for your son."
He was sure of this, and yet there was the nagging thought of fleeting moments in time that he had observed, quick glances of companionship that she had shared, not with her husband, but instead with Combeferre. Knowing his friend, there was nothing behind it, and yet this thought was a danger to them all.
Nothing to be said to Monsieur de Cambout, of course, but something to be kept in the back of his mind. One never knew what sort of ideas might be torn into daylight if needed.
"I cannot", he continued, "and will not believe that this was done by her."
"Maybe not by her hand", de Cambout continued, gritting the words out through clenched teeth. "But it may well be that it was this folly of upraising that killed her in the end. Dufranc hinted at this attack being not the only one, and this was Hélène's delusion in the end."
"No." Courfeyrac let fall the pretense of courtesy, his voice steady, sure, and just a trifle angry. "That is wrong. Do you really think so little of your son? To be swayed so easily by a pretty face and a few words? No, I tell you what he did, he did out of his own volition as much as hers, and you are doing him discredit in assuming otherwise. You may not agree with him, but his opinions were his, and not hers to share and defend."
De Cambout froze for a moment, his fingers clenching around the chair, and then he let out a bitter huff of a laugh.
"People do the strangest things for love", he said, and the hard lines around his mouth intensified.
Courfeyrac, perceptive to undercurrents and double meanings frowned.
"Where is Madame, by the way?"
But he had stepped too far, and the man that had just lost his son and only heir found back to his usual demeanor. He straightened, chin high, and when he turned to Courfeyrac again there was nothing of the former torment, nothing about the former unease in his eyes.
"I thank you for your openness, Monsieur", he said, in a most level tone. "I think this will be all for the moment. Be so kind and allow me conversation with the lady's parents, will you?"
Courfeyrac sensed the dismissal in his words and decided against putting up a fight. Giving a courteous goodbye and leaving the salon to search for either maid or the owners of the house directly, he wondered how many different layers this story would still allow.
The man in the mirror was someone different.
Frowning, Enjolras stared at the reflection in the waning light and briefly wondered why he had ever bothered to agree to this charade.
Staring back from the other side of the polished glass was a young man, face still in clear angles, eyes still blue, but his hair and eyebrows had taken on a dark, slightly dirty-seeming hue, and the fact that his lashes were still blond gave his eyes an odd overall expression. Éponine had dealt with his pale complexion with the help of some ash and soil which, in the semi-darkness could serve as a tan that he never had acquired in reality.
He was wearing a workingman's clothes; trousers, simple waistcoat and short jacket – a dress that might have been straight out of Feuilly's wardrobe, actually – and his attire was complemented by a slightly misshapen cap that Éponine had placed upon his locks for the finishing touch.
He had almost flinched, expecting some sort of backlash to the odd sensation that he had experienced while her fingers were running through his hair, but the touch had been brief and professional, and when she was gone again he released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.
Éponine was much the same, in skirt and blouse, brown hair slightly less tangled than when he had seen her before; but the change was substantial as opposed t the way she had looked in the morning, in a grisette's attire with an attempt at propriety.
But there was no time to muse on such things. Dusk was upon them and Éponine insisted that they go, as to not leave their host waiting. Enjolras, never exhibiting much patience, was glad for the necessity of actions.
Paris, he realized not for the first time, but with renewed recognition, was a city of layers. For a while they were moving through familiar ground, moving north through the Latin Quarter before turning left towards Saint Germain. Éponine, though, had a different way of moving, now that they were on shadowy paths, and she inflicted this habit on him with just a few commands and movements, and he felt himself complying.
Enjolras learned the virtues of using the sides of the street instead of the full middle (the disadvantage was the content of the gutters at times running there, but Éponine ignored them fully and so he did his best to do so as well), of standing and watching for a moment before entering larger spaces (the first time he felt bored and annoyed, but as Éponine started to point out to him what she was looking for he began to understand the virtue of this approach), and of keeping to the smaller streets, even if this would be a detour (for there were less eyes to avoid that way).
Beneath and amidst the Paris he knew, he realized, there was another world that he had never been granted access to. Éponine seemed proficient enough, though, and to a certain extent willing to explain why she would avoid this crowd (who had apparently killed one out of their own number for booty some time back) or ask that gamin for directions or occurrences.
He was sure that there were a lot more signs that she did not convey to him, for when the spindly, tall, pale man appeared in front of them, she was not startled at all; for all that he seemed to have grown from the floor or jumped out of the thin, warm night air.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle", he greeted Éponine, almost formally, before he extended a similarly courteous welcome to Enjolras. "I see that you have made good time in coming here."
Enjolras learned that the man's name was Babet, and not much more, but he seemed to be familiarly acquainted with Éponine – this was very evident in their manner of talking to each other.
Babet, however, seemed the man who had established connection to Cortez, and he bid them follow him through the nights of Paris.
Where Éponine's way of moving through the city had been odd, though, Babet's seemed completely erratic. They moved through houses, went underground for a while; passed back courts, climbed a fence and, even though Enjolras' sense of direction was not something he took particular pride in, seemed to be going round in circles.
He asked Éponine after that when Babet was scouting ahead, and realized that the frown on her face had deepened. "He is stalling", she whispered, standing on tiptoes to get closer to his hearing. "And moving us around in circles."
Enjolras tensed.
"Why?" he asked, not daring to turn around to her – he was watching where Babet had vanished and was not sure if he wanted to find Éponine this close to him at this point in time.
"I don't know. Maybe Cortez is preparing something. Maybe we're watched."
Enjolras let his gaze wander around. They were in a narrow alley, tenements to both sides, close and high enough that the ground floor probably hardly ever saw any sunlight.
"Are we in danger?" he asked. He had taken a pistol – against Éponine's advice – but on this unfamiliar ground he was not sure how far this would help him. Éponine shrugged.
"I don't know", she said honestly and she stepped away from him a bit, before she continued. "These are strange days."
And then Babet returned and there was no more time for conversation.
Finally, their odyssey ended in front of a large tenement, somewhere in Saint Germain. The area was poor and neglected, and simply looking at the house one might immediately fear its imminent collapse. Five stories high it seemed to be looming more over the road with every next story, and the masonry seemed poor and decaying.
There were all sorts of smells coming from the tenement that spoke of the presence of human beings and poor living conditions; the smell of stale grease being one of the more pleasant odors around. Enjolras; who was here under the guise of a simpler man than he was, had to refrain from pulling out a handkerchief.
Uncomfortably, he remembered for a moment all the stories that Joly had told on the subject of cholera and its spreading.
They entered the tenement and began to climb a crooked wooden staircase that creaked from time to time in protestation when their feet met some of the more aged steps. Despite the late hour, shouts and laughs, conversations and the cries of children could be heard on every floor, and the stepped up, and ever further up into the darkness of the gloomy staircase.
From time to time they encountered a resident, two boys playing dice on the landing on the second floor, a man smoking a pipe on the staircase between fourth and fifth. Enjolras could not shake the feeling of being watched and turned several times to see if doors had opened behind them to give way to curious eyes, but he remarked nothing and they continued further up.
The sixth floor finally was under the roof, and he had a glimpse of the woodwork that served as a support for the tiles of the thatching, and here it was where they halted. In the dim light he could make out two doors, one to the left, the other to the right, and Babet took to the former, rattling his knuckles against it to produce a loud sound.
He heard Éponine muttering next to him under her breath.
"Short long long short long. Would do well to remember that."
He realized he had not even paid attention to the manner of knocking, but there was no time for reflection. The door opened before him and they stepped into a completely different scenery.
After the shabby surroundings, the sight before him was a shock. Of course he was used to richly decorated rooms, but he would not have expected them here, on the sixth floor of a building that seemed about to collapse. He was greeted by warm candleglow that threw a golden light on the premises and realized that he was, for all intents and purposes, in an antechamber, where, on a few well-worn armchairs a couple of men were sitting and looking up to them. The door had been opened to them by a woman, hardly more than a girl, fifteen maybe, a creole with black eyes and curly hair that dimly reminded him of Adelaide. All of them were simply dressed, but mostly clean and he frowned at the scenery. However, there was little time for reflection, for they were ushered on into the next room. It was wide and spacious, covering the complete width of the floor and a good eight meters length, only half a meter high where the roof met the wall but almost three meters in the middle, and it was fully lighted and well furnished.
Everything was not exquisite, but at least of good quality, a scenery to be rather expected in the home of the average bourgeois than in a house such as this. Large bags and barrels stood along the sides and again a number of carpets provided a comfortable feeling to this place.
They were not alone – three other men were present sitting around a table smoking pipes, the aroma of the tobacco heavy in the air.
One of them got up and faced them, and Enjolras would not have needed Babet's explanation that this indeed was Cortez; the man they were supposed to meet.
He had to admit that there was an air of Spain around him, with black hair and a luxurious black mustache. His eyes, however, were bright and clever and took all of them in a second while he took another breath from his pipe. He wore dark brown trousers complemented by a waistcoat in a lighter tone, with a white chemise and black jacket to go with – the attire of a respectable businessman, Enjolras had to admit. He had opened the jacket for the room was quite warm, but apart from that his appearance and demeanor was oddly befitting the role he obviously tried to impersonate.
"Ah", he said, with some satisfaction. "Monsieur Enjolras. That is indeed an unexpected pleasure."