A/N: Courfeyrac loses a girl at a Christmas Ball and finds many other entertainments along the way.
As I am not Male, French, or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's novel into something cohesive-please don't sue me!
63. Glance (Les Miserables)
A glance is all it took.
A glance is all it took and yet there was so much more to her; that just one glance was not nearly enough. He needed to find her and yet that was almost impossible with the crush of the dances, dipping and sliding through the sea of steps.
He barely notices the turn, the spin; the weight of his partners' hand clasped in his, although he knows that he really should be paying full attention to her and not trying to find a lost flash of a girl whom he isn't really sure is there at all.
'Do you like dancing, M. de Courfeyrac?'
That dreaded participle again!
What had possessed him to introduce himself to this darling bud of May, this barely pricked Persephone of unmatched beauty with the weight of his fathers' name that he has spent so long trying to free himself from?
His partners' attempts at conversation are light; flirtatious undertones flickering through her soft grey eyes fluttering up from long, dark lashes.
He knows why she's doing it, why she's even here and yet as he ponders his answer, carefully guiding through a penultimate spin and trying in vain to scan the ballroom for the flicker of a moss green velvet sash, for the flutter of an auburn ringlet which would reassure him that she was still there.
The candles seem to blur as they waltz the final steps and he can feel her eyes on him, her gaze suddenly dark with annoyance. She was the youngest daughter of one of his more liberal professors and right now, not used to being ignored.
'Do I like dancing Mamoiselle?' He smiles at her, bowing low as they dip towards their next partners; shifting his hand on her waist; fingers rippling against through silk-lined satin down to the whalebone of her corset to reassure her that he will answer her question, however, mundane she might find the answer.
Across the room, he can see a very uncomfortable Marius Pontmercy blushing furiously into his glass of claret as he tried to make conversation with a very concerned looking Joly, who was no doubt expecting the sheen of sweat that was beading itself against the younger mans' forehead to manifest itself into inexplicable symptoms at any moment.
But does he like dancing?
He likes the act of dancing, he concedes, eyes flickering across the room to see if he can spot the elusive girl that has escaped him for so long; but had never quite understood the emphasis that had been put on the endless hours of instruction complete with a shy, tongue-tied partner who had spent most of the lesson fascinated with a loose scrap of lace on her dress than him or the dance itself.
He does enjoy the social side of dancing, though; enjoys the candlelit smiles and laughter that rings across the ballroom, the twinkle of glasses, the soft hum of conversation; the swell of the orchestra which made balls the perfect opportunity to slip into a dark corner and discuss the upcoming revolution with potential sympathisers.
He enjoys flashing a winning smile to the watchful eyes of the mothers and aunts who crowded around the floor; hiding their hopeful faces behind their ostrich feather fans and bending his lips to the knuckles of his partner, telling her in a smiling undertone that they needn't be so suspicious of his intentions- it wasn't as if he; a Law student who was known throughout the drawing rooms of the Parisian elite as a 'revolutionary '; the word muttered in a scandaled undertone, would be a suitable marriage prospect for their precious offspring.
All too soon, or not soon enough, the orchestra finally brings the dancers into a flourish of final bows and courtesy's and with a soft brush to his partners fingers; he is able to rescue the blushing booby Pontmercy and find the elusive girl who had captured his thoughts so entirely.
'Thank heavens', the poor boy garbled as Courfeyrac gladly accepted a glass of claret from a passing waiter and led him to the door into the drawing room. 'How do you do it, Valentin? All… All the talking… I don't understand, I really don't.' He looked so amusedly bemused that Courfeyrac cannot help but feel a smile teasing at his lips.
'My dear Baron, it is simply a matter of practice. You must simply watch and learn'.
Marius huffs a little at that, fiddling with his glass and Courfeyrac's smile simply grows, wondering what on earth Joly of all creatures could have told him to make him so flustered.
'I speak only in jest my dear', Courfeyrac throws an amicable arm around Marius's shoulders and proceeds to steer him towards the door.
'Do you?' Marius's dark eyes as are wide as those of a startled fawn, but Courfeyrac hardly notices, his gaze flickering over all the faces of the charming young debutantes, trying to decipher whether she was among them.
So distracted is he in his quest to find her, that he barely recognizes Combeferre and only half remembers his manners in greeting the guide who is escorting a young girl who shares the same quiet, dark manner that is sparked with an energy that only the very best knew how to prise out of the usually reserved philosopher turned medical student.
The pair turn a corner and are met by a sea of expectant faces of young women waiting for a partner to take them into the next dance. Beside him, Courfeyrac feels Marius stiffen and try to back away; the hand gripped firmly around his upper arm suddenly slick with sweat.
'Will you be joining us M'suir?' A blonde girl with bright, dove grey eyes and a fragile beauty that Courfeyrac would have enjoyed if he were not so otherwise engaged, asks and steps forwards; dimpling prettily as she curtseys to the pair.
Marius shoots him a panicked glance and Courfeyrac prods him forward.
'Alas not, M'moiselle, I am otherwise engaged,' the sorrow in his voice is only half genuine; but he hopes that this butterfly beauty may be so taken with the prospect of having a Baron; even a poor one, on her arm; that she doesn't notice.
The company wilts with annoyance at that, but he continues, 'however, may I have the privilege of presenting the honourable Baron Marius Pontmercy to your most distinguished company?'
Knowing his cue and with a quick dig to the ribs, Marius manages a rather stiff bow and bowing himself, Courfeyrac takes his leave; sending a silent prayer to whoever might be listening to watch over his protégée with the gaggle of excitable girl; all desperate to find a suitably wealthy husband.
Weaving his way back through the drawing room, Courfeyrac scans the dance floors and finds nothing; not even a hint of her. On his travels he passes a slightly intoxicated Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire who were trying to persuade Joly, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, into a game of whist; which if Courfeyrac knew the duo at all, would either end in tears or the three of them being thrown out into the cold with a severe dose of reprimands.
'I saw a girl… A girl for you de Courfeyrac!' Bahorel grins at him, his voice slurred with drink and barely misses upsetting his wine glass.
Silently grimacing at the use of the dreaded participle, Courfeyrac nods in interest.
'She… She's gone… Her Father's a Count… Well-to-do…Thought tonight… too rowdy for such a prec… precious flower…'
Oh Bahorel.
Desperately trying to swallow back his disappointment, Courfeyrac leaves them and makes his way towards the entrance; hoping that a spell in the icy winter air would medicine enough to clear his head.
He would find her he told himself, accepting a cloak from one of the valets waiting in the hallway for guests potentially wanting a post-dance stroll in the gardens.
He would find her and if it were to only to be a glance; a glance would, at least, cure his satisfaction until the Fates believed it was time for them to meet again.
Fin
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