«…my love, today we have to die and death will come and will look in brown eyes and there will be thunder, acid rain, poisonous darkness - when I fell in love with you, it was like this…»
(warning for alcohol and innuendo; also, illustrations on this fic are throughout the text!) ****
“I am not going to Momus.”
“But —“
“No.”
“Musichetta, my love, the plan—“
“Was made by you, not me. I’ll prepare a hero’s welcome for your return, but my foot does not cross the threshold of Café Momus. Especially not in these shoes.”
Joly cast his eyes down. They were red, a deep-dyed scarlet, with sweetly worked embroidery and delicate heels that had long since left their precise imprint upon his heart. Musichetta, in these shoes, was not to be questioned.
“Very well, dearest. Though I shall be thinking of you. I wish you could come. Grantaire would love to see you there, I know. It’s his favourite place, you see, and—”
“Grantaire has no idea this is even happening, does he?”
“Well, no. It’s a surprise. It took ages for me and Bossuet to work out when his birthday was, he’s always been so close-mouthed. About that, that is— obviously not about anything else.”
“Yes, ‘close-mouthed’ is not a term I’d apply to Grantaire in the normal course of things.” Musichetta smiled irresistibly, and Joly felt something he was sure presaged a syncope. “Give him my very best wishes, and come back in one piece— you and Bossuet both. I’ll be expecting you.” She leaned in to kiss him. Definitely a syncope, Joly thought, but worth it, in the end.
************
If you wanted a table at Café Momus on a Saturday in June, you had to arrive unfashionably early to stake your claim. The canny customer would seek out the upstairs room: a convivial place with its large windows and ornate plasterwork stained by years of smoke from candle, lamp and pipe. Joly, entering, found Courfeyrac and Bossuet already seated at a table that looked— to Joly’s worried eye— optimistically large. After embracing Courfeyrac (who was wearing a new scent, he noted) and planting bisous on Bossuet’s rough cheek, Joly ventured: “My dears, do we know who else is coming along?”
“Well, I’ve invited all of our crowd, of course,” Bossuet replied thoughtfully. “Enjolras gave me a stern look and told me he had work. Feuilly is teaching tonight— French to his Polish group, you know.”
“Marius was off on one of his mysterious long walks, so I left him a note at that ghastly tenement of his.” Courfeyrac sipped his coffee. “Combeferre has a shift at the Necker. But Jean Prouvaire said he’d be along.”
“Prouvaire’s coming? Good, I owe his bony poetic arse a kick or two.” The others looked up to see Bahorel striding to the table, his jacket under his arm. His hair was pomaded and tied back neatly for once, Joly saw, and he was wearing a miraculously clean shirt.
Across the table, Courfeyrac had his hands over his eyes. “Is that waistcoat… new?”
“You like it?” Bahorel posed, smiling. “Chinese silk! Expensive, mordious, but I had to have it. Dragons, you see?”
Risking a closer glance at Bahorel’s midriff, Joly discerned golden serpentine forms, clawed and whiskered, writhing across the gleaming scarlet fabric like spermatozoa under a microsocope.
“Why this desire to kick the arse of Jean Prouvaire?” Bossuet was asking.
“Firstly,” replied Bahorel, “because at our last conversation, he implied that I could not if I tried. Secondly, because on the morning following that conversation, I awoke to find my inadequacies immortalised in a ballade in the style of Villon, inscribed upon various parts of my person in what I am assured was the finest India ink. Thirdly, because the aforesaid arse offends me by its shapeliness. The curvature of those twin hemispheres is far too perfect to exist in this city, I’m sure you’ll agree. If, as the Church Fathers would have us believe, we live in a world where perfection is denied us for the sins of Adam, then the arse of Jean Prouvaire is a living blasphemy. If, on the other hand, we dwell in a chaotic and godless universe, where all things are haphazardly shaped by the mindless actions of primordial forces, then nothing so perfect as the arse of Jean Prouvaire should exist at all. How am I supposed to live in proximity to an arse which both disproves and affirms the existence of God?”
Courfeyrac passed Bahorel a freshly poured coffee and the sugar bowl. “My dear Bahorel, if you are resolved not to make a lawyer, then perhaps theology is the career for you. Think of the Sundays that would be enlivened by such a sermon.”
“Perhaps,” mused Bossuet, “Jean Prouvaire’s posterior exists as a sign of divine benevolence, like that other arc which occasionally decorates the sky?”
Bahorel finished stirring and struck the spoon vengefully against the rim of his cup. “All I’m saying is that when the revolution comes, those with perfect arses will be first against the wall.”
“I’m sure that will be of great comfort to the sans-culottes,” muttered Joly. Bossuet gave him a perfectly filthy grin—there’s that syncope again— and murmured back, “Is Musichetta coming?”
“No,” said Joly sadly. He related their earlier conversation to Bossuet. “I don’t know why she’s so dead set against this place. As far as I know, she hasn’t been here in years.”
Bossuet shrugged eloquently. “Best not to enquire, I find. If it’s an old love affair, all we should do is feel enraged and jealous for no good reason. Let Musichetta be Musichetta, that’s the best way.”
“Just as you say, my dear. Now: shall I go and fetch the man of the hour?” At Bossuet’s nod, Joly rose, made his excuses and went to seek out Grantaire.
*********
After drawing a blank at the Corinthe and the Musain, Joly found himself at the door of Grantaire’s lodgings just off the Place Saint-Michel. A word with the concierge bought him a disapproving glance and passage to Grantaire’s door. Some while after his hesitant knock, the door grudgingly opened.
“You do me wrong to take me out of the grave.”
“My dear Grantaire. Happy birthd—“
“I had just attained the blessed state known to the heathens as Nirvana and to the poets as sweet, blissful unconsciousness. I was dreaming, you infidel, dreaming— that sunny dome, those caves of ice— a vast harem of odalisques bent on discovering the inmost secrets of my languishing soul— and then your knuckles at my door, and the whole damned thing dissolves into the murk of memory. You are Alexander, and my palace of dreams your Persepolis.”
“You should write a poem about it,” said Joly, momentarily struck.
“Been done. Besides, if I pick up a pen I might be ranked beside Jean Prouvaire in the annals of futility. Come in, come in, don’t stand there like some underendowed Herm waiting for the tender mercy of Alcibiades. Or of the concierge, for that matter, who runs this place like the Conciergerie. Come in.”
***************
Joly and Grantaire strolled forth under leaden summer skies, feeling the occasional spitting drop; as they were crossing the Île de la Cité they saw a blue-white flash and heard a nearly simultaneous crack of thunder. All at once the heavens opened, drenching them and driving them to seek the scanty shelter of a chestnut tree.
Joly put his fingers to his wrist, but his pulse remained steady, if a shade faster than usual. Another flash, a pause of exactly two heartbeats, then another thunderclap. They were out of the sheeting rain, but fat drops from the leaves above still spattered them. The only poor souls in the street hurried by with their shoulders hunched. All but one: down the street came a slight-figured young man, apparently of student age, with his jacket plastered to his body and his arms open to the heavens. There was something of the sublime in the skyward stare of his wide blue eyes.
“Oh, would you look at that idiot.”
“That’s no idiot, that’s Jean Prouvaire!”
“I stand by my opinion—”
“Prouvaire! Poet! Here!”
A moment later, they were both locked in the affectionate, dripping embrace of Jean Prouvaire. “Jehan, Jehan,” murmured Joly against his soaking shoulder— “what on earth are you doing?”
“Enjoying the storm. Isn’t it beautiful? No one looks up during a rainstorm. I can’t think why. Such lightning, my Jolllly! What thunder in the heavens! At such moments, I feel truly alive.”
“Would you gaze heavenwards while an old wife empties her chamberpot on your head, since you do so when God does it?”
“My dear Grantaire, if chamberpots caused such divine cloud formations, perhaps we’d all raise our eyes. Even you. Happy birthday, by the way.” Grantaire remained absolutely motionless as the poet leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
Into the brief silence, Joly said “We were just going to Café Momus for a drink. Join us?”
“I— yes, of course.” Prouvaire gave Joly a conspiratorial smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Shall we go, then? It seems to be easing up.”
Indeed the most violent part of the shower was over, but still, Grantaire and Joly were almost as soaked as Prouvaire by the time the three arrived at Café Momus. At the door, Joly drew Prouvaire aside.
“I should have said something earlier: Bahorel’s here, and I think he wants to kick your—“
“Yes, well. Many have tried.” Jean Prouvaire gave him a smile. “Thank you for the warning, but I’m certain it was all bluster on his part.”
Grantaire grimaced. “That Bahorel is bluster incarnate. A paper tiger.”
“No, an unexploded grenade. But believe me, I know how to defuse him.”
Their wet shoes made a sextet of squeaks as they climbed the stairs and crossed the old floorboards of the upstairs room. From the table came a full-throated cry of greeting, the pop of Champagne and one or two handfuls of confetti, which fluttered down to decorate Grantaire’s damp hair and shoulders.
“Idiots.” He grinned. “Beloved idiots. Let’s drink.”
******************
Prouvaire and Bahorel had eyed each other like feral cats for a moment; then Bahorel had embraced the poet, lifted him off the ground, and murmured something in his ear; they were now deep in talk.
“While you were away,” murmured Bossuet to Joly, “we had to defend the table. From them.” He nodded to the corner by the piano where three young men stood, drinks in hand, favouring the revellers with the odd disdainful glance. “They kept insisting that since there was no one in your chairs at that moment, they ought to have the right to sit in them, or at least take them away. And I believe they would have, had not Bahorel intervened.”
“Devoted as I am to the rights of my fellow man,” Courfeyrac put in, “it pained me to refuse them. But, as I said to them, just because a chair is empty does not mean it is unoccupied.”
“And if our numbers are lessened,” added Bahorel, “those left behind must fight all the harder. Thus, it fell to me to kick righteous arse on your behalf.”
“No actual blows were exchanged,” Bossuet clarified. “Bahorel convinced them of the justice of our cause by… er, standing up. And also by the excellence of his rhetoric.”
“A true loss to the legal profession, our Bahorel,” sighed Joly.
“Avocat jamais!” Bahorel raised his glass to Bossuet, who met it with his own. “Jamais.”
Courfeyrac looked up. “I say. They’re coming this way.”
“They want some after all?” Bahorel brightened.
But Grantaire was on his feet. “Ha, I knew you wastrels wouldn’t be far. My friends and sundry assembled fools and rogues, may I present: Rodolphe, slinger of ink; Marcel, defiler of canvases; and Schaunard, creator of cacophony. And these are the Friends of the ABC, a perfectly innocuous society for the education of children.”
“So we can sit at your table now?” asked the shortest of the three in what he doubtless thought was a tone of light mockery. “Is there, perchance, a seat for a poet among your fancy law student friends?”
“Sit by me, poet,” said Jean Prouvaire with a smile. Bahorel ran his thumbs over his knuckles as the new arrivals helped themselves to Champagne, finishing the bottle.
“A piano bench for me,” announced Schaunard, draining his glass and scampering to the far corner, where he struck up a tune on the battered and tinkly rosewood upright.
“He’s good,” Courfeyrac admitted. “So how do you know Grantaire, then?”
“We met on the day of submissions to the Académie…oh, some years ago now.” Marcel smiled. “A month later we met again, and discovered that both our masterpieces had come back bearing the dreaded capital R. So we drank to drown our misery; by eight o’clock we were friends, and by midnight sworn brothers.”
“And you are a painter, now, by profession?”
“Well— I entertain hopes that someday my genius will be recognised.”
“How many times did you paint over that Passage of the Red Sea and resubmit it as something else?” Grantaire broke in.
“Only two times. …Maybe three. But you, your still lives were astonishing— your studies of—“
“Oh, come on. They were shit.”
“No art is shit!”
“Most art is shit. Mine certainly was. Tell me you don’t look at your work from five years ago and feel consumed with shame at its utter, irredeemably awfulness.”
“It was the work of a different artist, but no less worthy. My Red Sea never sold, but it still has pride of place on my wall.”
“Hush. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my paintings were shit. You clearly haven’t.”
“And do you still paint?” Marcel asked. “There,” he said into the sudden, table-wide silence. “If you have no faith in your own art, what do you have?”
“The satisfaction of not wasting pigment,” replied Grantaire tranquilly. “And you— if you can’t even recognise shit when you produce it, then how do you ever expect to paint anything that’s notshit?”
“I believe that what Grantaire is saying,” intervened Jean Prouvaire, “is that dissatisfaction can be as much of a spur to the artist as aspiration. I think you’re both correct. One must never avert one’s gaze from the distant Parnassus—“ this with a nod to Marcel— “yet distant it remains, no matter how we strive.”
“And what would you know about it, lawyer?” demanded Rodolphe.
During the heartbeat’s pause that followed, Joly realised Schaunard had stopped playing the piano.
“Only what a lifetime of lines written, scratched out and rewritten can teach me.” Prouvaire’s voice was soft.
“All I’m saying,” continued Rodolphe with some truculence, “is that none of you should claim to know what it is to be a true artist. None of you. To be a true artist is to serve the Muse to the exclusion of all else, no matter the cost to yourself. Have you gone without food because the journal turned down your article that week? Have you been thrown out of your cold, solitary room because you couldn’t make the rent?”
“Actually, I—“
“Shh, Bossuet.”
“Have any of you,” continued Rodolphe, warming to his theme, “had to burn your furniture because you couldn’t afford firewood?”
“Speaking of which, Rodolphe my friend,” broke in Grantaire, “don’t you have a millionaire uncle? The one who made his fortune by inventing that stove— what’s it called—“
“Yes! He would have employed me to write proposals for his new stove design, but my poet’s honour could not bear it. I fled his house by the window.”
“Without completing the work he’d paid you for.”
“Indeed.”
“And,” pursued Grantaire, “as I remember, that fee, which might have seen off your landlord for a number of months, was spent in three memorable evenings— one of them here.”
“What’s your point, Grantaire?”
“My point is that you, Rodolphe, are no better than the rest of us. But cheer up: you’re also no worse. Do you know, our Laigle here once spent no less than five louis on dinner with a… lady? His sleeping quarters were in a hallway at the time. My hallway.”
“That was long ago!” Bossuet protested. “My misspent youth.”
“Anyway, Bossuet’s no lawyer. Rodolphe, you two ought to get along fine. Here’s Courfeyrac with a fresh bottle. Everyone kiss the Widow Cliquot and make up. I, Lord of Misrule and Master of the Floral Games, command it. Rodolphe, Prouvaire, you’ll drink each other’s health or I’ll set Bahorel on both of you.”
“I’ve got to kick at least one poet’s arse tonight,” murmured Bahorel as the cork popped.
“Keep dreaming,” replied Jean Prouvaire, sotto voce.
As Courfeyrac poured, the door opened.
“Speaking of floral games!” Grantaire raised his glass. “To beauty, wit, and artistry— and virtue— in the charming persons of Citizens Floréal and Boissy!”
The new arrivals were unanimously hailed. Serviettes were handed to them to dry their hair, their wet shawls hung ceremoniously over chairs; glasses were procured for them, and Champagne poured. Irma Boissy took a glass to the piano for Schaunard, and the two of them began a song:
“Chevaliers de la table ronde,
Goûtons voir si le vin est bon.”
Boissy’s voice had a pleasing stridency which had made her a popular guest at the cafés chantant. Schaunard, as he played, sang harmonies in a high tenor. Soon the whole room was singing, with Grantaire standing on the table conducting wildly with a limp rose from one of the vases.
“Behold the Parisian Beethoven,” proclaimed Jean Prouvaire, gazing upwards. Joly had to admit the resemblance was uncanny; Grantaire’s hair had always resisted discipline and was now in open rebellion.
“To Beethoven!” Joly raised his glass, and Prouvaire clinked his against it.
“Turgid German rubbish,” said Rodolphe loudly.
Marcel smiled. “Well, I suppose it’s good enough for lawyers.”
Lightning flashed outside the dark windows. Joly turned to Marcel and Rodolphe. “Listen. Sneer at us all you like for being bourgeois. Most of us will be lawyers, it’s true. But remember that we are trying to change things for the better, and that will take lawyers as well as poets! It did in ’89, and it will tomorrow.” He realised he was shouting to be heard over the increasingly cacophonous singing.
“I understand the impulse to exist outside society,” said Prouvaire. “Society is a gilded carriage on which the rich ride in comfort while the poor either pull till they drop or are crushed beneath its wheels. Will you watch and do nothing, or will you join us?”
“Join you in what?” Rodolphe’s eyes narrowed.
“There are those who would upset the cart and lay a new road where all may walk side by side. It won’t be easy, and it will take courage. Audacity. But we believe Paris is with us.”
Rodolphe lowered his eyes to his glass. “I’m just a poet. Tonight I drink Champagne, tomorrow water. I take each day as it comes.”
“And you, Marcel?”
“I depict acts of heroism on canvas— or I try.” Marcel smiled wryly. “And fail, mostly. Grantaire was right. And if I tried to be a revolutionary hero, I’d fail at that too. Now, a failed artist is a wretched creature, but a failed revolutionary is… in an even worse case. Of the two, I know which I’d rather be.”
Grantaire had noticed their conversation, and pointed his floral baton menacingly. “Sing, you bastards!”
“Sur ma tombe, je veux qu’on inscrive: Ici-gît le roi des buveurs.”
Across the table, Bossuet reached around Grantaire’s waist to unfasten his buttons while Courfeyrac and Bahorel tugged down on one trouser leg each. The room outroared the thunderstorm as Grantaire’s trousers descended. Nothing daunted, Grantaire sang on, rose in hand, the table shaking as he conducted like one possessed, his nether baton bouncing in time:
“La morale de cette histoire, C’est qu’il faut boire avant d’mourir!”
The song ended with falsetto high notes from everyone and a protracted cheer. Grantaire, trousers still around his ankles, bowed theatrically in all directions and was pelted with flowers snatched from the vases on the tables. His bare posterior was towards the door when it opened, and he turned at the draft of wet, chill air.
Enjolras, his hair soaked, stood in the doorway.
Thunder echoed from without as he stepped forwards. “Courfeyrac? I went to your lodgings, and Marius told me you were here. Did you forget to leave me that article? You know we go to press tonight.”
“Oh.” Courfeyrac stood up, looking guilty. “A thousand apologies! I meant to get it to you, of course, but…” He fished in his jacket pocket, extracted a folded page. “Here it is. I’m sorry.” He handed the paper to Enjolras, who stood entirely still beside the table, not looking up or acknowledging Grantaire in any way. “May we pour you some Champagne?”
“No, thank you. I must be going. Till tomorrow, then?”
“Till tomorrow.” Courfeyrac leaned forward as if for bisous, but Enjolras had already turned on his heel and made for the door, unhurried, straight-backed.
As it closed behind him, Grantaire raised an empty glass to the empty air. “Happy birthday to me.”
***************
Jean Prouvaire had procured another bottle of Widow Cliquot’s finest and Schaunard was doing his heroic best at the piano, but the party was no longer gai. Grantaire was sunk in a profound melancholy. Prouvaire and Bahorel were seated on either side of him, talking to him in an undertone; Rodolphe and Marcel had joined Schaunard at the piano.
Joly found himself sitting next to the girl Grantaire had called Floréal. “May I pour you a glass, mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” She was silent as he poured, watching the bubbles rise. “Tell me: the man who arrived just now and left so quickly, who is he?”
“A friend of mine, and of many of the people at this table.”
“But not Grantaire?”
“I… I don’t know. They know each other. We all know them both. But it’s true, they are… not friends.”
“What is his name?”
“Enjolras.”
“Ah.” She paused. “I have heard Grantaire speak that name. Never happily, but never with malice either. With sadness, and sometimes anger. It’s an unusual name.”
“He’s an unusual person. I think you’re right, by the way— that’s the thing about Grantaire: that no matter how unhappy he is, he’s never malicious.”
“Yes. He’s always been like that.”
“May I ask where you know each other from?”
She picked up her glass, from which she still had not drunk. “We were children together. Not related by blood, but he’s been more of a brother to me than my brothers. I knew him before he was Grantaire, and before I was Floréal.” She took a sip of Champagne. “I sometimes wonder: had I not become Floréal, what else might I have been? And I think he wonders the same, about being Grantaire.”
Joly glanced across the table. “I can’t imagine him not being Grantaire, but…”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I don’t… I don’t know whether he enjoys it much.”
She shook her head, then put a hand on the table. “Will you pardon me? I should go talk to him.”
“Of course.” Joly pushed his chair back to let her pass. She made her way over to Grantaire and laid her hand on his shoulder; he seemed to tense at the touch, but then looked up at her and said something Joly couldn’t hear. She seated herself by Grantaire as Bahorel cheerfully made room; Joly passed her glass along.
“Quite a girl,” said Bossuet, settling into the seat beside Joly. “Reminds me of Musichetta in some ways.” Silently, they raised their glasses and drank to her.
“She doesn’t talk much, does she,” mused Joly, “about who she was before she was Musichetta?”
“No,” said Bossuet, “I’ve noticed that too. She talks about her childhood and about recent years, but almost nothing in between. I suppose it’s not so extraordinary; after all, before I was Bossuet, I was no one of interest. Still, I’d imagine she knows most of our life histories by now.”
“Yes. She knows more about me than anyone except you.” Joly knew it was true as he said it.
Bossuet failed to hide a smile. “I’d never thought of it like that, but I think I might say the same.”
Briefly, clandestinely, Joly clasped his friend’s warm hand under the table.
“We should be getting back, shouldn’t we?” Bossuet said after a pause. “She’ll be waiting.”
“I know, but I hate to leave Grantaire feeling like this. We invited him here, and now…”
“What shall we do to cheer him up, then? More singing?”
“Definitelynot more singing.”
“Hm. How about brandy?”
“Brandy could work.”
When Joly returned with a bottle of Armagnac and a tray of glasses, he found himself intercepted en route to the table by the painter Marcel.
“Ex-scuse me, friend.” He’s drunker than me, Joly realised, and that takes some doing. “Not to eavesdrop or any-such-thing, but did I hear you mention— just now— the name Musette?”
“My colleague and I were discussing an acquaintance of ours, called Musichetta. A similar name. I can see where the mistake arises.” Joly attempted to step forward; Marcel still blocked his way.
“Are you sure it’s not the same girl? ‘Cause if it is, you want to steer clear of her.” He tapped a finger unsteadily to the side of his nose. “One who knows, you see. Brotherly advice. Don’t trust ‘er. She’s a viper. She’ll eat your heart—“
“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. I was speaking of a different lady altogether. Please excuse me.” Joly dodged around a nearby table and turned back toward his friends.
“She’s Italian.” He heard the painter’s voice aimed at his back. “Her real name’s Luisa.”
Joly was glad the man couldn’t see his face. By the time he got to the table, he’d mastered it— he hoped.
“My dear Grantaire, a glass of brandy?”
Grantaire looked up. His good ugly face split into a smile. “Joly! If you’ll have one with me.”
“I brought glasses for everyone.” Joly began pouring. Hands perfectly steady, now.
“Joly… Jolllly, my boon companion, I have a favour to beseech.”
“Beseech away, o comrade in arms.”
Grantaire put a hand on Joly’s shoulder and met his eyes. “Let’s never do this again.”
“What, come to Momus?”
“God knows there’s better drinking-holes in Paris, but no. I mean, no more of these futile celebrations of growing old. No more birthdays.” He patted Joly’s shoulder and let go. “It is unseemly, after all, for immortals such as we to mark the paltry passing of the years.”
Joly passed Grantaire a glass of brandy. “Are we growing old, or are we immortal? Make up your mind, old soak.”
“Both. We are Zeno’s tortoise, crawling endlessly towards a grave we’ll never reach. Or perhaps we shall share the fate of Tithonus, who withered and grew decrepit but was denied the mercy of death, while the object of his affections remained as fresh as morning dew.”
“…I’m sorry, Grantaire. I’m sure he meant no offense. He’s just… got a lot on his mind.”
“No.” Grantaire downed his brandy and made a small “ah” sound. “No, he’s Enjolras. Disdain flows in his blood vessels, mingled with divine ichor. Were he otherwise, he would not be Enjolras, and my heart would be free as air.”
Joly pondered a moment. He had never considered Enjolras a scornful sort; it was only Grantaire, Joly realised, to whom he showed contempt. Joly searched for words. “He… he sees the world a certain way. He lives here among us, but his mind is always bent toward the future, the Republic. I think sometimes he forgets that that’s not as easy for others as it is for him.”
“It’s not. Easy for him, that is,” said Grantaire, his voice rough and low. “You can see, can’t you, how it takes all he has, all the flame of his spirit? His disdain is for those who don’t give everything.”
“I don’t give everything,” said Joly. “There’s always more I could be doing. I think that’s true of all of us. You don’t have to devote yourself entirely to the Republic, as Enjolras does; I think he’s the only one who can do that. But there’s a generosity about him, too. He finds common ground with anyone who’ll give something.”
“Yes. And he rightly sees that I give nothing. That I have nothing to give. That I can’t even perceive the Republic, or imagine it. Oh, I tried, in the early days— to please him, I tried. I read my Robespierre and my Hébert, I memorised the Constitution. But every time I try to act as though I believe, it’s a disaster.” Grantaire poured himself another brandy. “Perhaps there’s some phrenological bump absent from my skull: the seat of belief in invisible things. There were times when I thought I could see the Republic through him, as a window lets in the light. But I was wrong. I can only see him. And he sees me. He’s the only one who sees me for what I am.” In Grantaire’s hand, the glass was shaking.
Joly gently took the glass, set it down, and clasped Grantaire’s hand in both of his.
“I think, after all these years, I know something of what you are too,” he said. “I think that’s true of Lesgles and me both. Call us whatever you please, but you’ll get no disdain from us.”
“It’s true.” Bossuet was there, like a falcon to the wrist. “You’re stuck with us. A terrible fate, but you’ll cope. Now,what shall we drink to?”
“To no more birthdays.”
“Tomany more birthdays, because as long as you know us, this is something you have to put up with.”
“Then you name the toast, Aigle de Meaux.”
Bossuet raised his glass and looked round the table. “Citizens, charge your glasses! What shall we drink to?”
“To life!” cried Courfeyrac.
“To art,” said Marcel.
“To poetry!” shouted Rodolphe.
“To the future,” said Prouvaire.
“To revolution,” murmured Bahorel.
“To peace,” said Irma Boissy firmly.
“To friendship.” Floréal was smiling.
“To harmony,” Schaunard piped up.
“To good company,” said a voice from the doorway, “and good music.”
“Musichetta!” Joly rushed to take her hand and lead her to the table. He raised his glass: “To love!”
Bossuet’s smile could have lit the room. “To many happy returns.”
*******
“Musichetta, my love! I thought you weren’t coming?”
“Well, I decided I was being a silly girl after all. A mere café should hold no terrors for a grown woman, don’t you agree? In any case, my reservations weren’t as important as wishing Grantaire a happy birthday.” She embraced Grantaire, leaving a pink afterimage of her lips on his cheek. “You look melancholy, my friend.”
“Nonsense!” Grantaire was ebullient. “I’ve never been better. A glass of ambrosia, my good Courfeyrac, for the goddess of the shrine! Schaunard, a hymn to do the lady justice.” Schaunard threw Musichetta a smile and seated himself at the keys.
“Musette!” Marcel had somehow got to his feet and was swaying towards her.
“Ah. Hello, Marcel.” Without missing a beat, Musichetta swung her right fist out and connected smartly with Marcel’s jaw. He fell sprawling. She shook her hand twice delicately, from the wrist. “Do you know, I’ve been waiting to do that for years?”
Rodolphe rushed over to kneel by the fallen painter. “What was that for? Wasn’t breaking his heart enough?”
“Not nearly. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Musichetta stepped over Marcel’s prone form to greet Jean Prouvaire and the others at the table.
”Don’t you turn your back on us!” Rodolphe shouted. “Don’t you dare walk away. We know what you are, Marcel and I.”
“Yes. I am the person who sold her earrings when someone we both loved was dying, and you never thought to go to your rich uncle.” She turned back to face them. “On that night, I knew I could have nothing more to do with you or your false Bohemia.”
Rodolphe was silent. Marcel raised his head, groggy. “I heard you got married. You married a… postmaster.”
“It fell through. I ended up with a postmaster’s son. And a medic.” Musichetta smiled. “And they all lived happily ever after, Fin. I’ll take that Champagne now, Courfeyrac.”
Marcel’s head sagged back to the floor. “Oh God. She’s wearing the shoes.”
*********
“Pardon me, citizen.” A deep voice at his elbow startled Joly. He turned to find that the speaker was a stranger of about his own age, wearing a battered, shapeless overcoat and an amiable expression. “Do you know what happened here, and if so, will you tell me? I don’t often find my friends on the floor of Café Momus, you see.” He looked down at Marcel and Rodolphe.
“Nor I mine. I can see how this might seem strange.” Joly wondered how, exactly, he was going to answer the newcomer’s question.
“Strangeness is a necessary first step to understanding.”
“There was… not a fight precisely, but an altercation… anyway, it seems to have blown over.”
“As the storm leaves fallen trees in its wake,” replied the man. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Colline, itinerant philosopher.”
“Joly, physician in training.”
“Ah, a disciple of Aesclapius! May Apollo smile upon your calling.”
The fellow was decidedly odd, Joly thought, but strangely likeable.
“Colline!” Grantaire called. “I was wondering when you’d turn up. Are you renewing Diogenes’s search? I fear you’re doomed to disappointment; the last honest man left the room some time ago. This party is strictly frauds and charlatans only.”
“I lack both Diogenes’s keen eye and his lantern,” replied Colline. “I doubt I would know an honest man if I met one. More to the point, I find myself lacking the key to my lodgings, which I was hoping to retrieve from my colleagues, if one may be found compos mentis.”
“Here’s one,” cried Schaunard, hastening from the piano. “I’m still on my feet, and moreover, I have keys. Not merely of ebony and ivory, but of the metallic variety which procures entry.”
“Both are honourable in their way,” said Colline agreeably, “but just now I stand in more need of the latter.”
“Come then: let’s get these wastrels home. Grantaire, hail and farewell. Rodolphe, Marcel, on your feet, you louts.” Schaunard and Colline wrestled Rodolphe upright; Marcel was more reluctant to leave the comfort of the floor.
“She’s wearing the shoes. Look, I can see ‘em.”
“Shut up about shoes,” Schaunard advised him.
At length the four bohemians threaded the labyrinth of tables and got to the door. As they disappeared through it, a series of impacts was audible, as of someone falling down a flight of stairs.
“I quite liked that Colline chap,” said Joly to Prouvaire.
“You have a weakness for good men in old coats,” replied the poet. “Bahorel and I are leaving too. The bill is settled— no arguments, my dears— and now we must pay the greater reckoning we owe to Bacchus and Morpheus.”
“And, possibly, Aphrodite,” added Bahorel in an undertone.
“Hush now.” Prouvaire laid a finger to Bahorel’s lips.
“Good lord,” whispered Bossuet, “I’ve never seen Bahorel purr before.”
Joly smiled. “Farewell, my friends.”
Courfeyrac, meanwhile, had embraced Grantaire and taken a courteous leave of Boissy and Floréal; he then bowed to Musichetta and kissed her hand.
“Courfeyrac, you are, as always, the preux chevalier,” said Musichetta. “Thank you, dear heart, for a glass of Champagne just when I needed one.”
“Widow Cliquot is the true heroine,” demurred Courfeyrac. “I am merely her champion. Joly, Bossuet: thank you for a fine evening.”
“Are you sure we can’t help with the bill?” whispered Joly urgently.
“Perfectly. Prouvaire and I agreed it between us. And I felt it was the least I could do.” Courfeyrac glanced at Grantaire. “Will he be all right?”
“He’s Grantaire,” said Bossuet. “He’s bounced back from worse. We’ll see him home.”
“No,” said Boissy, “we’ll do that. Floréal and I.”
They embraced Courfeyrac and waved as he left, then slowly made their way downstairs. The rain had ceased, and the air smelled of wet greenery and warm stone.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked Bossuet.
“Two such guards to protect my virtue, and you worry?” asked Grantaire. “These ladies are fearless, I’ll have you know. And in their company, so am I.”
“Well. Goodnight, then. And happy birthday, Grantaire.”
“Happy birthday,” echoed Joly and the others.
Grantaire growled. “You idiots.” Then, suddenly, he stepped forward and gripped Joly and Bossuet in a fervent embrace. “You beautiful idiots. I love you. Don’t forget it.”
“We never will.”
“Never.”
“Grantaire. I can’t breathe.”
He released them. “I’ll let you live. See, my mercy is infinite.”
“Long live Grantaire, the Bounteous and Merciful!”
“Long live Grantaire the drunk,” said Boissy. Floréal took his hand and said “Come on. It’s getting late.”
They waved farewell, and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta started home, arm in arm. They walked in silence for a while, Musichetta’s heels clicking on the wet paving-stones, till they came within sight of their door.
“Thank you,” she said softly as they halted.
“For what?” Joly and Bossuet spoke at the same time, then giggled like children.
“For not asking.”
“Musichetta, love.” Joly paused, then: “Luisa. We always want to know you better— you’re the continent round which we sail— but we never want to know more than you want us to.” As he said it, his heart untwisted in his chest and the bitter taste of Marcel’s words subsided. All was well with the world. Musichetta embraced him— was it still raining? Her cheek was wet.
Bossuet spoke near his ear: “I am quite curious about the shoes, though.”
She laughed. Joly could feel the laugh in her ribcage, under his hands, and then the vibration of her voice:
“Help me take them off and maybe I’ll tell you.”
“As my lady commands!” Bossuet fumbled with the key, opened the door, and let the three of them in. Joly contemplated Musichetta’s shoes ascending the staircase, felt astoundingly happy, shut the door behind them, and followed.
Ok here’s the truth: IF WHEN YOU WATCHED/READ LES MISERABLES YOU DIDN’T SUPPORT THE MILITARY COMING TO KILL THE REVOLUTIONARIES, BUT YOU CURRENTLY SUPPORT THE NATIONAL GUARD COMING TO ATTACK PROTESTORS IN AMERICA, YOU ARE A HYPOCRITE. END. OF. STORY.
ITS BARRICADE DAY. IT IS TIME TO LOVE AND APPRECIATE LES AMIS DE L'ABC. AND IT IS DEFINITELY TIME TO CRY ABOUT “permets-tu?” AND GAVROCHE’S DEATH. THIS IS OUR TIME. LAMARQUE, HIS DEATH IS THE HOUR OF FATE, THE PEOPLE’S MAN, HIS DEATH… IS THE SIGN WE AWAIIIIIIT (TO CELEBRATE BARRICADE DAY)!!!! HAPPY BARRICADE DAY EVERYBODY! VIVE LA FRANCE!
Ever intrepid, Jehan finds himself wounded. Ever the compassionate doctor, Joly stitches him up. But frustrations boil in the silence of the apartment.
((A submission for the Same Prompt Fic Challenge 2022. The prompt for this year is: “How exactly did you think this worked?“))
