A lightly sketched scene of Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta strolling down a down a cobblestone street, the sun washing out most of the details. The two men look down at Musichetta with tender smiles, and she grins up at Joly in a devilish way.

"I met the most wonderful girl today," announced Hyacinthe-Félicien Joly with a dramatic wave of his arms as he entered the back room of the Musain.

"Finally," shouted Courfeyrac.

"Who is she, Joly?" asked Combeferre, earning a glare from Enjolras.

Before he could answer, Fernand Laigle, also known as Bossuet, came up behind Joly. "Poor Joly has been addled all day. That pneumonia must have affected him worse than we thought. He meant to say I met the most wonderful girl today." He laid a hand on the taller man's shoulder. Joly shrugged him off.

"Finally," Courfeyrac repeated, but with less enthusiasm and more confusion.

Joly laughed, and turned on Laigle. "My dear Bossuet. You quite forget that I spoke to her first. And it was tuberculosis, not pneumonia."

"Of course. Forgive me. You had pneumonia last month." A gracious smile and an extravagant bow from Laigle. "And you, my sweet Joly, forget that I saw her first."

Joly's jaw tightened, his smile strained. "Yes, but how many times did she dance with you? Only twice. She danced with me the rest of the evening."

"Indeed, that was because you pounced on her every time another man even looked at her. You never gave me a chance."

"Bossuet, Joly, will you please stop so we may begin the meeting?" Enjolras interjected before Joly could respond.

The two men nodded, sidelong glares exchanged, and sat down with Bahorel at their usual table.

"Now," began Enjolras, "We will rally in front of General Lamarque's house tomorrow and . . ."

Bahorel leaned close to Joly and whispered, "What is her name?"

Joly's hazel eyes glowed, and he whispered back, "Musichetta Tremblay. Isn't that the most beautiful name you have ever heard? Musichetta. A ballerina. I escorted her to the party after her show and-"

"I escorted her, Joly. She held my arm."

"Well, she was also holding my arm." Joly straightened in his seat and gave Laigle what he was probably trying to construe as a lofty look, but which came across as awkward. "And she kissed my cheek, Bossuet. There is no denying she loves me."

Bahorel frowned. "Joly, you only just met her. How can you say that?"

Joly turned on Bahorel, glaring. "Have you met Marius Pontmercy?"

Bahorel groaned. "Joly, Hyacinthe-Félicien Désiré Joly, please do not compare yourself with that bumbling 'Bonapartist democrat.' Use your head."

"Certainly," said Laigle, giving Joly a smug look. "If you would use your head, you would consider why a beautiful ballerina like Musichetta would even be interested in you."

Joly shook. "What do you mean by that, my dear Bossuet?"

"Well, look at you! Your eyes are too big, like an insect's. And your skin! One would think you just came from the mortuary."

Joly looked down at his hand and frowned. "Bossuet, don't encourage him," Bahorel hissed, glancing at Enjolras, who was watching them with a disapproving air.

"And as for your hair! So lifeless, so colorless. It looks like seaweed. You really should cut it."

Joly raised his eyebrows. "Just because you're bald . . ."

"And what of your legs?"

"What's wrong with my legs?"

"They're so long and bony. It's a wonder that you can dance."

Joly stood up, knocking his chair over. Wrath flared from his too-large eyes. "And what would a lovely ballerina do with a bald fool who is constantly falling over his own feet? You can't dance at all!"

Laigle jumped up and grabbed a hank of Joly's curls, pulling him across the table, toppling the wine glasses. "You call me a fool? What of the boy who is perpetually ill? You would force that poor girl to wait on you hand and foot, pouring a fortune's worth of medicines down your spoiled throat!"

Joly swung his arm at Laigle's face as hard as he could. His fist connected with Laigle's nose. Laigle released Joly and stumbled away, clutching his nose, but Joly leaped off the table and launched himself at his victim. Bahorel jumped to his feet, yelling, "Fight! Fight!"

"Joly, Bossuet, stop this!" Enjolras shouted above the noise. "Bahorel, stop them!"

Bahorel either did not hear Enjolras, or chose to ignore him. Feuilly rushed forward and grabbed Joly around the waist, heaving him off Laigle, whom Courfeyrac pulled away. Laigle's bald head gleamed with sweat, and Joly's hair, dripping and falling into his flushed face, looked even more like seaweed now. Enjolras approached his two disheveled lieutenants, arms behind his back, his face fierce.

"Now, Joly. Bossuet. What was that all about? I thought you two were best friends. A woman is the silliest thing you can allow to pull you two apart."

The two men stared at each other, breathing hard. At last Laigle said, in a heaving voice, "You're right, Enjolras."

"Quite," Joly agreed. "Perhaps we can sort this out."

Laigle managed a small smile. "Yes. A compromise."

Joly's face brightened. "A compromise."

Combeferre frowned. "I don't see how that would work in this case . . ."

"We can share Musichetta!" said Laigle.

"Inspired!" cried Joly. He looked down at Feuilly. "You can let me go now." Feuilly released him, and Joly and Bossuet shook hands. The rest of the Friends of the ABC stared on with open mouths.