Lost in Translationfic by amargueriteart by pilferingapplesSummary: Combeferre tries to teach Marius

Lost in Translation
fic by amarguerite
art by pilferingapples

Summary: Combeferre tries to teach Marius German and is interrupted by the Romantic zeitgeist and then gale force winds of puns.

 A/N: arrivisting found out the cool cookie protests!

“Marius needs to learn German,” Courfeyrac announced to Bahorel. “Where’s Combeferre?”

“And the relation between your two statements?”

“Bahorel! I am surprised at your mental turpitude this afternoon! Did you attend a lecture at the law school by accident?”

“Alas,” Bahorel admitted, lips twitching, “you have the right of it. I should not be surprised that Combeferre found time to learn German, and yet, I am.”

Combeferre was in the back room of the Cafe Musain, examining Joly’s attempts at parody. Their last attempt had nearly resulted in arrest, so Bossuet and Joly had the possibly brilliant, certainly drunken idea to create edible satires of Charles X. Joly’s characteristic care and precision made him a good cook and the batch of gingerbread batter had turned out very well indeed.

That had been the end of the obvious success.

Joly and Bossuet had invited Grantaire over to help them shape the cookies. Grantaire had been at the Musain with an open bottle of wine and it had seemed impolite not to sit and drink when Louison had already brought them two glasses. Two hours later, they recalled the original purpose of their errand. Joly unearthed a bottle of brandy to aid in the creative process. That “helped” about as much as could be expected. The result of this evening now lay on the table under the map of France, in a very sad row of misshapen lumps.

“You can tell Grantaire studied under Gros,” said Combeferre, taking out his handkerchief. He moved several of the cookies to one end of the table. These were all recognizably profiles of Charles X, and helpfully had raisins for eyes. The rest looked sort of like the profile of a human being, if one had never seen a human being before and had possibly confused human beings with rock formations.

Feuilly was standing at the other end of the table, frowning and tilting his head from one side to the other. “Which… is that…? I think that’s the nose?”

Bossuet looked down the line of Feuilly’s pointing finger. “Alas, no, that’s the tail of his wig. I think. Joly?”

“I think two cookies may have fused into one,” said Joly, rubbing his nose against the knob of his cane. “Quite the medical anomaly.”

“We shall call this one Janus, and pretend it is elaborate political commentary,” said Bossuet. “Ah ha, got it! Charles X is literally two-faced!”

“I do not think anyone would be able to recognize that it is two profiles of Charles X,” said Combeferre.  “Feuilly, you are an artist. Now that you know what it is, can you see a likeness?”

“Euh….”

Bossuet sighed. “It is because I baked this particular monster. Let us be thankful that amongst my many names, one finds neither Victor nor Frankenstein. If this is my Creature, heaven help the world. You see, I have no eye for how a man’s nose changes when you put a priest’s cap upon his head.”

“Ideally, the nose should not change,” Feuilly said, still unused, as of yet, to Bossuet’s sense of humor. Feuilly moved onto one of Joly’s attempts. “Is that.. a priest’s cap?”

“Oh wonderful, that is what it is supposed to be!” exclaimed Joly, delighted.

“Why did you put a priest’s cap on the head of Charles X?”

“Because I could not figure out how to do hair mostly,” admitted Joly. “But it is supposed to be an indictment of Charles X’s hyper-religious policies. He might as well be a priest, because of his reliance on the Catholic Church— at least, that is what it was meant to convey, but since his face looks so unpleasantly melty it distracts one, rather, from the intended message.”

Courfeyrac, ever the gourmande, went to look at the cookies himself, Marius trailing behind him like the tail of a comet. Courfeyrac thoughtfully nibbled on one of the more malformed Charles Xs. “One often talks of swallowing injustice,” Courfeyrac remarked, “but it is always considered bitter. Decidedly unlike these. The irony is sweet.”

Bahorel came in then, Jehan orbiting around him. “Ah, Combeferre! Marius needs to learn German— and there is Marius! The stars seem to be aligned.”

Marius looked uncertainly around the room. Combeferre turned his attention from the cookies and smiled. “I can certainly help, though I must confess my own knowledge limited.” Combeferre moved to another table, leaving the others to sort the cookies in order of ‘most like a representation of a human being’ to ‘least likeness to any sentient creature or ones not seen after smoking too much opium.’ Feuilly was supposed to be in charge of this task, but he soon grew distracted. Jehan, Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel were more interested in finding the most horrifying looking cookie than trying to gather together the specimens that would actually be useful, and, anyways, Feuilly was always eager to learn new things. He considered any knowledge useful knowledge, and began slowly edging away from his table.

By the time Enjolras had arrived in the back room, Feuilly was hovering behind Marius, listening intently to Combeferre’s instruction.

“Are you giving a lesson?” asked Enjolras, smilingly. “It appears you have another eager pupil, Combeferre.”

“Feuilly, you are welcome to join us,” said Combeferre. He gestured at the chair Enjolras was already dragging over to their table. “Do you mind, Pontmercy?”

Marius stammered out that he did not. Feuilly gingerly sat down and accepted the blank paper Combeferre put before him. It felt odd to Feuilly to have someone in a top hat and a tailcoat pulling out chairs for him. It mitigated the awkwardness somewhat that it was Enjolras, who always seemed absent-minded (though he wasn’t; Feuilly had never known a man to be more observant), and who extended the same cordiality to everyone. It also helped the Enjolras immediately wandered away afterwards, to look at the cookies and to be genuinely delighted in the creative mishaps of his friends.

“I know I am not—” Feuilly began.

Combeferre interrupted him with, “Anyone who has an interest in German is welcome. Have you an interest in German?”

Simply, Feuilly replied, “I have an interest in everything.”

“Good. Let us continue with introductions. ‘I am called,’ is…?” Blank stares. Marius was too shy, Feuilly too intimidated. Combeferre prompted, “‘Ich heiße.’ Now pray repeat it?”

Marius mumbled something; Feuilly approximated the sounds. Combeferre patiently repeated the phrase. “Ich heiße Herr Combeferre. Und sie? Wie heißen sie, Marius? Though I should first explain the difference between the more formal address and the more common—”

“I— I do not know if this is….” Marius reddened. He was still deeply embarrassed to be talking to Combeferre. Correction seemed imminent, and Marius was morally certain that it would be as cutting and as mortifying as the last time. And, then, Marius had been talking in his own language, not a foreign one. It would be so much worse this time around. “I am to translate articles for a dictionary.”

“So, learning conjugations will be useful,” said Combeferre.

“You will bore him to death,” complained Jehan. “Why not try for some poetry? Goethe is marvelous, his sense of the uncanny—” Jehan stopped himself, with a gasp, and thrust a particularly hideous cookie into Courfeyrac’s hands. “Oh inspiration can come from the most mundane of discussions!”

He whipped Bahorel’s black coat off of the back of a chair and attempted to turn it into some kind of a cloak. Jehan was small and slender, and Bahorel was large and built more to wrestle bulls to the ground than to sit and compose poetry. The coat was therefore about the proportional size of a cloak on Jehan’s slender form, and it did not look as ridiculous as it should have. Jehan was also wearing a doublet over his trousers, so sartorial expectations were low, anyways.

Marius and Feuilly looked on in confusion.

Combeferre blinked. “Ah… what, pray tell, is this costuming in aid of?”

“Nien! Im Deutch!” Jehan insisted.

Combeferre was not amused. “Fine. Guten Abend. Wie heißen sie?”

“Ich bin der Tod!”

Combeferre sighed. “First of all, we are exploring the use of the verb heißen, to be named, not seib, to be, second of all— der Tod?”

Feuilly did not grasp that Jehan had literally just announced that he was death and persevered with the lesson. “Guten Abend Herr Tod,” he said, very politely. “Ich heiße Feuilly. Woher kommst du?”

Jehan replied that he came from the undiscovered country from whom no traveller returned.

This was understandably too complex for either Feuilly or Marius to follow. They heard the word ‘country’ and were satisfied.

Feuilly motioned at Marius to continue with the lesson.

“Wie geht es Ihnen?” asked Marius. He did this very awkwardly. He seldom asked anyone ‘how are you’ in French, let alone in German.

Jehan replied that he was fine, thank you, but didn’t Herr Feuilly and Herr Pontmercy feel a little sickly?

Feuilly looked blank, like a piece of paper freshly pulled from a notebook. “Euh… enchante— no, what was it again? Freund mich?”

Jehan informed them that it was, indeed, a pleasure, to meet Death.

“You are throwing off Combeferre’s lesson plan,” observed Enjolras, quite mildly.

“We are still going through introductions,” protested Jehan. Then, struck with a sudden idea, he ran over to Bahorel, and whispered to him.

Combeferre clearly hoped to get back to the lesson and began trying to explain how ‘du’ and ‘sie’ corresponded with ‘tu’ and ‘vous.’ His lesson plan was not to be, however; Jehan’s voice rang out through the room, in clearly, manly resolution.“Start again!”

Marius was too shy to start the dialogue. Feuilly gamely began again, “Guten Abend. Wie heißen sie?”

Jehan dramatically swirled out of the way. Bahorel had assumed a rather gargoyle-esque stance, his fingers curled like claws, and wore the most hideous crown anyone had ever seen. It was, in fact, more hideous than any of the gingerbread heads. This was because it was made out of the most horrifying ones, strung together with the laces from Jehan’s doublet.

“Was ist das?” groaned Combeferre.

“Das ist der Erlkönig,” replied Jehan, happily.

The other Romantics in the room found this hilarious. Courfeyrac and Bossuet were near weeping with laughter, and Joly, who was musical, hummed some of the Schubert lied. Marius looked to Courfeyrac for clarification.

“The Goethe poem,” Courfeyrac choked out. “You must have read it! Or heard Schubert’s song setting, it is quite famous! You know, a father on a horse with his young son, the son hears the Erlkönig tempting him away, the father disbelieves him, and there is an inexplicable death four verses later.”

Feuilly had not heard of either the poem or the song, and decided to ignore the Romantic for the practical. He once more pressed on with his lesson. “Guten Abend Herr Erlkönig.”

“Jehan,” protested Combeferre.

“It is German culture!” protested Jehan, in his turn. “Come now Combeferre, you cannot object to the only king that I truly recognize.”

“I am not sure I wish to politely greet kings,” demured Feuilly.

“Friend Combeferre, do you know of a less polite greeting than ‘Guten Abend’?” asked Enjolras, leaning against the table of gingerbread heads with Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac laughed and said that he could think of several, but was glared into keeping that knowledge to himself.

Joly was humming Der Erlkönig still, and sang out, “Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!” Then, in a normal vocal modulation, he added, “Gewalt! It means ‘force.’”

Jehan, delighted, rewarded Joly with a cookie. Feuilly and Marius dutifully wrote down ‘Gewalt’ on the sheets of paper Combeferre had put in front of them. 

“Guten… Gewalt?” attempted Feuilly. Bahorel hissed at him in a suitably eldritch horror sort of fashion. Joly nearly choked on a cookie.

Combeferre had been holding his head in his hands and now put his head on the table.

“I shall raise your head,” said Courfeyrac, coming to perch on the edge of the table. “We are the Friends of the ABC, and must uplift those struggling with the Ah Beh Tsay!” His German pronunciation was not good, and the joke even worse. Enjolras looked puzzled. Courfeyrac said, wincing, “The pun does not properly translate.”

“Neither will Marius if this keeps happening,” growled Combeferre, though without any real anger. “Bahroel, stop hissing. I would not rule out the existence of otherworldly elf monarchs, but I doubt the Erlkönig would successfully lure children to their doom if it hissed like that.”

Jehan staggered backwards dramatically, clutching at his velvet doublet. “Ack! Combeferre, how can you say such things? Does your soul have callouses?” Jehan used the word ‘cal,’ which caused Courfeyrac to start elbowing Bossuet in excitement.

“No Courfeyrac!” begged Combeferre.

Undeterred by this censure, Courfeyrac persisted, “But, Combeferre! With me and Bossuet as the companions of your bosom surely you must have-”

Enjolras had been listening intently and interrupted, “Calembours!” A pun was a “calembour” in French. The beatific smile which accompanied this did much to mitigate Combeferre’s exasperation.

In his heavily accented English, Courfeyrac exclaimed, “Ee ‘as beat us to se pun-ch!”

Recognizing the word “pun” Bossuet pointed at Combeferre and added, “You oughtn’t to have tried to stop us! This is yourpun-ition.”

The much harassed Combeferre dragged over Jehan. “Der Tod, may I introduce you to Herr Courfeyrac and Herr Bossuet?”

“Why?” ased Feuilly.

Combeferre raised his eyes towards heaven. “It is the only way to get the puns to stop.”

Enjolras put his hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and said, with the same smiling mildness as ever, “That is right. You are my dearest friend but even I cannot offer you im-pun-ité.”

Courfeyrac and Bossuet were so pleased by this show of understanding from their chief they piled on him at once, loudly thumping him on the back and tormenting the French language in further puns, going much too rapidly to be intelligible.

“Entre deux maux il faut choisir le moindre,” muttered Combeferre. “Which one shall you take Herr Tod?”

But Jehan was busy explaining  Der Erlkönig to Feuilly, and confusedly translating passages of the poem in Marius’s general direction, and could drag neither of the punsters into hell.

“There is only one Meaux present,” Courfeyrac said, slinging an arm around Bossuet’s shoulders.

“I am going to kill you both myself,” Combeferre said.

A pun occurred to Courfeyrac and Bossuet at about the same time, and they began elbowing each other excitedly. Combeferre eyed them both with a harassed expression, and then decided to take off his glasses to polish them, in the improbable hope that if he didn’t see them making a pun, the pun wouldn’t be as terrible.

“We cannot die, you see, since der Tod has turned translator,” said Courfeyrac. “How good it is to see that Herr Tod still concerns himself with the maux—” evils, which sounded like ‘mots,’ words “—of the world.”

“Courfeyrac,” said Enjolras, warningly.

Courfeyrac held up his hands, “My Rousseau pun was even worse. You see? I am keeping track of all the moves in this jeu des maux.”

Even Bahorel groaned.

“Ah ah ah!” Bossuet wagged a finger at them all. “We aren’t done yet! I have advice for der Tod even Combeferre could not condemn: between two mots, one must always choose the lesser.”