World: Paris
Scene: A random street, circa 1828.
Players: Enjolras = Abby; Bahorel = Shawn
A warm breeze is blowing down the street, carrying a faintly fetid smell up from worse neighborhoods rather than the fragrance of flowers down from better ones, as Enjolras swings out the front door at eight in the morning, papers in hand, and starts off at his usual breakneck -- pardon -- efficient pace.
Sometimes even those of us who don't believe in fate or destiny or Divine Provenance of any sort can see omens for what the are. As a case in point, find this morning. Were the breeze scented with flowers, perhaps that would seem an auspicious signal, a sign of good things to come. The day's breeze brings other fragrances, however, and so perhaps it might not be taken by many as a good thing to see Bahorel sitting on the sidewalk, munching on a croissant he got God-knows-where, grinning (crumbs falling down his shirt) to see Enjolras approach.
The latter spares him barely a glance, except to mark his position and avoid crashing into him; his mind, evidently, is on other things.
Bahorel stands, somewhat ponderously, and calls out. "You! C'mere a moment!" Seeing as how he fully expects to be ignored, he starts walking in the same direction, trying to keep pace (God, where is this man going in such a damnable hurry?).
It takes a moment; then Enjolras slows enough to turn, regarding him with lifted brows. "Pardon?"
Bahorel nods in evident satisfaction. "You. I heard you talk the other night in a wineshop. Interesting ideas. So, we need to chat. Where are you going, school?" His mouth twists in an expression of evident distaste. "To hell with that. Come on, let's get something to eat and I can tell you all the things you got wrong."
Enjolras blinks at him, for once in his life quite speechless. Then, bemused, "Are you always this peremptory, monsieur?"
Bahorel nods briskly. "Usually. Except when I'm angry, then I speak less and hit people. Are you coming or not?" He grins, a wild, almost crazed grin, enough to startle or frighten - but without the usual madman's gleam. No, instead the man's eyes look quite... calm.
Enjolras stands quite still, regarding the other expressionlessly for another moment. Abruptly, he shrugs. "Very well."
Bahorel's grins only widens, and now his eyes take on a bit of sparkle. "Excellent! Come on, there's a good place for pastry down the ways a bit." And he starts heading off down the street, into the aforementioned less affluent section of the city, confident that he's being followed. He's too damn intriguing not to be, his manner says.
Enjolras watches him a second or two, then catches up effortlessly.
As he walks, Bahorel speaks easily, in a kind of rambling effortless free association. "The problem with your mode of thought so far, watch out for the manure there, is that you're thinking from a purely egalitarian point of view, that the smart people will rise up to defend the poor people, and forgetting about the poor people entirely, which is really a shame as there's so many more of them than there are of us and don't you think they ought to be included, and before I forget to mention it my name's Bahorel, and oh, careful, I know that kid, he's a damn good cutpurse, piss off, Marc! Anyways, what I think you're forgetting is the great mass of these people who have no spirit or hope because it's been cut down by the rich dogs who run everything in this country, they're just thankful they've homes and beds, and they've lost the will to hope for more, which is really what they need after all is hope, and it would seem more sensible to give them that hope and have them aid in any kind of uprising rather than simply rise up and then expect them to follow because their spirits have been crushed, you see, and here we are, how do you like your croissants? I'll have another, please, Jean-Pierre, thank you, the last was excellent, so what do you think, m'sieu?"
Enjolras, having given up trying to get a word in edgewise, runs a hand through his hair, mute for the moment.
Bahorel takes that silence to indicate that not only is Enjolras thinking, he's also hungry (thinking is a lot of work), and so orders two croissants for the man, lightly buttered. They actually are quite good.
"In short, then," Enjolras prompts him, having recovered somewhat.
Bahorel raises a brow. "In short? Some concepts and situations, of which this is one, really can't be done justice by a quick summary. But I'll try, since you ask. These people around you here in the slums are important. They're people. They haven't been born to wealth or privelege and yet they still have all the same rights and dreams as anyone else. And any uprising has to start with them. It has to be about them, as well, which is what you've got right, but it also has to start with them, has to involve them from the beginning."
Enjolras blinks once. "Granted. But you talk of uprisings as if there are no alternatives."
Bahorel nods. "Indeed I do, for the simple reason that no person in a position of power wants to give up that power, and will use any and all means, including violence, to hold on to that power."
"That, m'sieur, is a sweeping generalization. I have a better opinion of human nature than that."
Bahorel chuckles softly. "It is a generalization, but a well-founded one, I think. And quite frankly, given enough time I think it's one you'll make too, but that's neither here nor there. When i say "uprising" I am not necessarily referring to an armed insurrection, though I feel that that is the way to go, but instead to any upheaval that replaces the current corrupt, decadent, and moribund power structure with another."
"Ah. Fair enough." Enjolras leans against a railing, regarding him thoughtfully. "I don't say I disagree."
Bahorel shrugs. "Be that as it may. The point I'm trying to make, however, is that from all appearances, you were born a child of privilege. That gives you certain advantages that these people don't have. Don't let that blind you to their worth, is all." He seems quite comfortable, to all appearances a child of privelege himself, standing here in a section of town most people don't care to visit.
Enjolras' face tautens slightly. "Far from it."
Bahorel shrugs. "So perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps you only seemed that way when I heard you speak. It's happened before." He doesn't seem convinced, but he doesn't seem overly concerned, either.
"Blind?" says Enjolras politely.
Bahorel raises a brow. "Pardon?"
A thin smile. "Or privileged? Because I would like to correct the former impression, if that's what you meant. The latter, I can't do much about."
Bahorel chuckles softly, waving a hand. "Hyperbole. Metaphor. Figure of speech. Not my point at all. I'm just... making certain, I suppose you could say."
Enjolras nods. "I see. Certain of what, is the question."
Bahorel grins wolfishly. "Why, you, m'sieu."
Enjolras smiles back quite pleasantly. "In what sense?"
Bahorel gesticulates inarticulately, trying to convey meaning. "I saw you, m'sieu, the way people listen when you talk, how you get a fire going in the belly... you're a natural-born leader, and you're going to end up leading, whatever you do. As for me, I just want to make certain you're leading to a place I'd care to follow to, and frankly, thus far I have to say I'm impressed, if not a zealous convert." He points down the street, into the darker, more run-down sections of the slums. "Those people deserve something good, m'sieu, because God knows they've not gotten much good thus far. And I want to help make that happen."
At this last avowal, Enjolras' eyes light finally. He holds out a hand. "Your name was..?"
The hand is taken with a firm grip. "Bahorel. Pleased."
"Enjolras. Likewise." A sudden, boyish grin breaks through. "And you'll join us this evening. The same place."
Bahorel chuckles softly. "Shall I? Well, I suppose I shall. I'll even try not to get too obnoxious."
"Very well. Until then," and Enjolras starts on his way again with no more farewell than that.