World: Paris
Scene: The Corinth wine-shop, Rue de la Chanvrerie, circa 1830.
Players: Enjolras, Combeferre = Laura; Grantaire = Abby; Mathieu = Shawn
A normal looking wine-shop, with tables and chairs scattered about over the corner of the room farthest from the door. Along the wall to your left as you enter is a large counter/bar, behind which sits the manager and barkeeper. On the other side of the counter, out from the corner a little bit, is a spiral staircase leading up and down.
Enjolras is a young man who looks barely twenty, having just begun to acquire adult muscles to match his stature. His shoulders are not particularly broad. He seems to have been built more for thinking than hard labor. His face is pale, not the pallor of those who avoid the sun, but of those who are not affected by its rays. His features are symmetrical and firmly molded. His blond hair is held at the back of his neck by a ribbon. If it was not, he would certainly be pushing it aside while thinking of something infinitely more important. His eyes always seem to be focused on the horizon, looking away from sordid reality like a Botticelli angel. Emphasizing the pallor of his skin is a rather bright red vest that he seems to have thrown on without thought. Its ornate brass fastenings are all open, exposing the white shirt underneath the vest. His black pants show slightly more care, though they are rumpled. Clothing is certainly not his main concern. For all his intellectual demeanor, he doesn't seem worried about the textbooks he carries.
Grantaire is tall but slightly built, his dark hair always a bit tousled, his clothing always a bit rumpled; a melancholy young man in the main, though seeming friendly enough. He is woefully homely, but his brown eyes, though constantly bleary, have a gentle, earnest look. He is at the moment in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up a bit; his trousers are a little frayed, boots a little scuffed, his whole air a gaily disreputable one, were it not for his expression, which speaks of sardonic humor, and the eyes, which speak of sorrow.
Combeferre has no desc. Be kind to him.
An almost painfully nondescript man, the type that blends easily with any crowd, Mathieu perversely draws the eye, standing out by his very lack of noteworthy qualities. Short black hair, curly and disarrayed despite the most assidious attempts at grooming, frame a thin, not-quite-narrow face in which are set eyes of deep brown - sparkling, inquisitive eyes, the kind that never rest. Plain, almost pedestrian clothes of a neutral gray, slightly shabby despite their cleanliness, hang on a slim frame, offset by pale, almost sallow skin, the result of long nights of study and thought rather than sickliness.
Enjolras and Combeferre sit at a table, arguing.
Grantaire makes his scruffy way in, raking his hair out of his eyes ineffectually.
Combeferre looks up and smiles at Grantaire. "François, join us."
Grantaire blinks at the address, absent-mindedly scraping his muddy boots on the doorjamb. "Don't mind if I do. You know you're the only one who's called me that since I was ten?" He casts a wary look at Enjolras before meandering over toward the table.
Combeferre smiles amiably. "Am I? I could stop if you like."
Enjolras raises an eyebrow at the rumpled newcomer and does not greet him. "Still, there's no reason why people should judge Rousseau on his personal life. All men are not saints, and yet they may have good ideas nevertheless."
Grantaire sort of half grins at Combeferre, and kicks out a chair and collapses into it. "Amen to that."
Combeferre gives Enjolras a bit of a look that says quietly, 'Marcelin, say Bonjour,' but he does not articulate the rebuke. "Perhaps that would be the case if he had only abused himself. Many great philosophers had consuming habits: opium, drinking, mushrooms. That is not the same sort of flaw as turning out children into the street."
Grantaire is surprised into a snicker. "Mushrooms?"
Enjolras frowns at the word 'drinking,' and studiously ignores the annoying other person at the table. "Perhaps the children distracted him. Where would we be today without his great thoughts?"
Combeferre pointedly answers Grantaire first. "Many prophets wandered in the desert and had only mushrooms to eat. We follow their visions in our lives just as much as anyone can follow Rousseau. After all, Marcelin, it's not as if we can truly live by the ideals of Jean-Jacques under the current system. They are a dream for another time, one when man truly is enlightened."
Enjolras gets a bit flustered by Combeferre's complacency. "That other time could be soon. You don't know."
Grantaire just shakes his head, settling back in the chair to dry off some.
Combeferre nods, acknowledging this. "It does not seem likely at this point in history that a complete revolution can take place. The time is not yet ripe."
Enjolras holds onto his faith. "It could be soon."
Grantaire flashes one of those irritating grins. "Listen to your conscience, Marcelin."
Enjolras glares at Grantaire. "Don't ever call me that."
Combeferre breaks in to defuse the situation. "François, don't provoke him. Please. Marcelin, why don't you order some dinner?"
Grantaire says dryly, without any particular rancor, "You want me to disappear, then." He scrubs a hand through his hair again.
Enjolras glances at Combeferre and considers dinner until Grantaire angers him again. "Not necessarily. Just be quiet, and let me ignore you in peace."
"I wasn't talking to you," Grantaire says coolly.
Combeferre hails Chowder and orders three artichokes, then turns back to the two troublesome boys. "I don't want you to disappear, François, or I'd not have invited you to the table."
Enjolras seethes. "You were when you used my name. You have no right to do that. My friends may, but you may not."
Grantaire still has that look of challenging amusement. "All right, I'll call you whatsyourname." And to Combeferre, less hostilely, "God, man, you sound like my mother."
Combeferre puts a hand on Marcelin's shoulder. "I am sure he did not realize he could give offense merely by using your name. Do forgive him." He raises an eyebrow at Grantaire. "Perhaps I sound like your mother, but the two of you sound like my little brothers when they are quarreling over a toy."
Grantaire snorts, half annoyed, half amused. Subsides.
Enjolras flushes slightly in anger and embarrassment, then finds a point to salvage. "If Rousseau had to deal with that sort of nonsense, he might never have become a philosopher at all."
Grantaire murmurs, to no one in particular, "Doesn't he run a restaurant?"
Enjolras looks as if he is about to physically assault Grantaire, but he catches Combeferre's eye and subsides.
Chowder brings over three artichokes. "Messieurs, your food."
Grantaire doesn't exactly grin at the look, but he doesn't exactly scowl, either.
Combeferre gives Chowder a genuine smile, payment, and a tip. "Thank you, mamselle." He gives each of them an artichoke.
Enjolras pushes up his sleeves and regards the vegetable in slight consternation. "An artichoke, Combeferre?"
Combeferre nods. "They are quite pleasant."
Grantaire mutters, "Artichoke the life out of 'em." All right, maybe he's not as sober as he first appeared.
Enjolras does not comment on the drunken irritation. He merely eats a leaf of the artichoke.
Combeferre smiles at Marcelin. "Thank you for eating with me."
Grantaire sort of studies the plant without committing himself. What he says is, "Remind me why I habitually hang about with a saint and a bloody demigod."
Enjolras answers acidly, "Because I don't seem to be able to get you to leave."
Grantaire retorts, "Modest, too."
Combeferre glares at Marcelin. "I fear you have fallen into poor company, Capital-R."
Enjolras half-snorts through his nose. "I'm sure some of us have."
"Now, now," Grantaire says ironically, "demigods have a lot on their minds."
Combeferre sighs. "Could you stop bickering and eat your artichokes?"
Grantaire rolls his eyes. "You do sound like my mother."
Enjolras just eats.
Combeferre looks at Grantaire's inviolate artichoke. "You know, artichokes remind me of someone I know: lovely and organized on the outside, and prickly enough to make one draw one's hand away near the heart. And yet the heart is soft."
Grantaire's eyebrows shoot up. He doesn't say anything, though, which is probably as well.
Enjolras blinks and begins to look rather upset. "I believe I have some chapters to read yet, before tomorrow's class."
Grantaire says placatingly, "Come on... whatsyourname."
Combeferre sighs and gives up on the pair of children. "Do you want that or not?"
Enjolras frowns at both of them. "I will not stay if you are going to taunt me."
Grantaire sits back in his chair in vast exasperation. "Nobody's taunting anyone, for the love of God!"
Enjolras does not quite get out of his chair, yet. "I beg to differ."
Grantaire tells the ceiling or the Almighty, "He begs to differ."
Combeferre relents slightly. "Perhaps I was speaking of someone else, Marcelin."
Mathieu enters from the street.
Mathieu steps quietly into the Wine Shop, looking about for a moment. He refrains from commenting on the tension in the corner, likely as not blaming the artichokes.
Combeferre looks up at the new entrance, grateful for some distraction from these very aggravating people, even though he cares for them. "Salut."
Mathieu glances over with a small smile, appraising Combeferre and nodding, as though in satisfaction. "Salut, m'sieu."
Grantaire says dourly, ostensibly to the ceiling, "Bonsoir. Care for a prickly pear?"
Enjolras glances at the new arrival. "He can have mine."
Combeferre puts a quelling hand on Marcelin's shoulder. "You're not leaving. If he wants one, I shall order another." He gives the new man a questioning look.
Mathieu shakes his head slowly. "Non, m'sieu, thank you... I shall be fine. Simply a glass of wine shall do for me, I think... have we met, m'sieus? I daresay you seem familiar to me..."
"Oh, what a good idea," Grantaire says quite earnestly. He leaves off glaring at the ceiling before he gets a crick in his neck, shifting to sit up a little straighter.
"Ha!" Enjolras laughs shortly. "You'll have trouble getting wine away from that one." He gestures dismissively at Grantaire.
Combeferre ignores the banter. It's all he has the patience to do at the moment. "Perhaps you have seen us around the Cafe Musain in the Rue des Gres. It is one of our other haunts."
Grantaire takes the jibe stoically, arms folded. He glances over the newcomer with mild curiosity.
Mathieu raises a brow, lips curling into a gentle smile. "Ah, but what finer thing in these troubled times than the solace of the grape, non?" Aware now that it is his turn to be appraised, he stands quietly, submitting himself to examination.
Grantaire murmurs, "Tell me about it."
Enjolras mentally classifies this person as 'drunkard, disregard unless impossible,' and concentrates on his artichoke.
Combeferre smiles slightly. "Sometimes, there are few things better than that."
Mathieu nods. "Ah, well, 'tis a poor solace, but oft the only one we have." He steps quietly to the counter, pondering his selection. "I hold no malice to those who mist seek its solitude."
Enjolras suggests offhandedly, "Why don't you go and drink with him, Grantaire?"
Grantaire says blandly, "Why don't you?"
Mathieu glances over once more, eyes meeting Combeferre's - looking sympathetic, most of all.
"I need no solace," Enjolras says grandly, which is not precisely true.
Combeferre returns Mathieu's smile, stands, and picks up his artichoke. "I will share a drink with you, friend...?" He pauses, waiting for this person to supply his name.
Mathieu chuckles quietly. "Mathieu, m'sieu."
Combeferre responds, "And I am Etienne." He takes a stool next to Mathieu. "Enchante."
Mathieu smiles wryly. "Hardly that, I am certain, but my thanks, nonetheless." nd then, in a much lower voice, "Your friends seem upset."
Combeferre nods and answers, not quite quietly enough to be conspiratorial, "They are always upset with each other."
Enjolras realizes that he is alone at table with Grantaire and two artichokes. He takes an essay out of the pocket of his coat and begins reading it.
Mathieu can't suppress a quiet chuckle at that. "Ah, and here I was ready to blame the pears..."
If Grantaire hears this byplay, he doesn't let on. He leans back in his chair with a slouch that borders on insolent, and contemplates the prickly pears.
Combeferre shakes his head. He responds in a quieter voice, "Blame the stubborn nature of my blond friend. He will not bend for any man, even enough to smile." With a twitch of his lips, he turns his gaze to Grantaire. "The other is a burr under his saddle, for it is the only way he can garner a response."
Mathieu watches the pair for a wordless moment before replying, "And you, friend to them both, do your best to keep the peace, non?"
Combeferre nods. "I care for them, though they madden each other. It is all I can do to even the score."
Mathieu tsks quietly. "So much for the brotherhood of man, eh?"
"Perhaps they can learn from my example."
Mathieu nods slowly. "Perhaps. It is a good thing, that you have this hope." He tilts his head, looking at the essay being glared at, if not read, by Enjolras.
Grantaire is quiet. Pride deters him from ordering a drink, but he doesn't have to like it. His eyes slide to the paper in Enjolras's hand, skeptically.
Enjolras rereads the essay for the fourth time and absentmindedly reaches for another petal of the artichoke. It pricks his finger and he cries out, pulling his hand away. "It bit me."
Grantaire stifles a chuckle.
Mathieu smiles gently. Beware the wrath of fruit. Turning back to Combeferre he replies, "It will come in time, no doubt."
Combeferre laughs. He calls out, "Didn't I warn you of that, Marcelin?" To Mathieu, he says, "It will, if it has the time."
Mathieu nods. "Ah, but angry young men so seldom do, more's the pity..."
Grantaire extracts a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to Enjolras quietly, without comment.
Mathieu murmurs, "If he has time, indeed... I hope that he will survive that long."
Combeferre agrees, smiling slightly at Marcelin's plight but wary of his future. "If you ever need to see the very picture of an angry young man, call on Marcelin Enjolras and speak of the King. Alternatively, bring the other man at the table with you. He will be furious." He sighs slightly, the smile going away. "He lives aflame."
Mathieu murmurs, "Unwilling to bend... too proud to break. My, my..."
Enjolras nearly takes the handkerchief before he glances at Grantaire and turns back to his essay.
Grantaire's shoulders sag, a very little, and he tucks the thing away again with a shrug.
Combeferre watches the refusal of the handkerchief and murmurs, "I believe I need a drink."