World: Paris
Scene: Corinth wine-shop, date indeterminate. Yes, we do know that the word suffragette is out of context.
Players: Enjolras = Laura?; Courfeyrac = Laura; Manon, Grantaire = Abby
Enjolras walks into the Corinth and looks around the tables.
Grantaire is slung in his usual chair with the usual drink and the usual air of melancholy amusement. He raises his glass slightly in Enjolras' direction as the latter enters.
Enjolras frowns slightly as he fails to see anyone in the room worth his time. He takes a seat near the door and unrolls a piece of paper, on which he begins to write rapidly.
Grantaire shrugs, and drinks to Enjolras without comment. After a minute, he ventures, "What are you writing there?"
Enjolras pats his pockets looking for a knife. After a moment, he finds one. Bits of quill fly, followed by droplets of ink. "Something important." He goes back to writing.
Grantaire snorts quietly. "Of course. What else?"
Enjolras ignores the comment and continues writing, pausing in between paragraphs or in the middle of sentences to muse for a moment before continuing.
Grantaire, a trifle ruffled, subsides into his chair.
Enjolras stops writing and glares at Grantaire. "Stop looking at me."
Grantaire gives him a grin which is calculated to annoy. "You're easier on the eyes than Chowder is."
Enjolras begins blowing on his paper in between glares. "I cannot work with you leering in the corner. I shall have to go home as soon as my ink is dry."
Grantaire throws up a hand. "What for?"
Enjolras stops blowing on the paper long enough to look dignified. "This work must be completed for the good of the Republic."
Grantaire makes a remarkably rude noise. "Indeed."
Enjolras rolls up his paper, corks his inkwell, and sweeps out without a backward glance.
Courfeyrac stops Enjolras in the doorway. "Just the man I was looking for. I need to talk to you."
Grantaire glances up from his sulk at the sound of a new voice. Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac's all right. Unlike some sullen bastards.
Enjolras starts to say, "I was just going home," but Courfeyrac cuts him off.
"I need your opinion. Manon and I have had a bit of a debate for several days now about the rights of women under the Republic. What do you think?"
Grantaire oohs silently in the corner, and raises his head to see how Enjolras is going to deal with this one.
Enjolras looks longingly at the paper in his hand. "I believe we were going to cover that area when it was a significant issue."
Grantaire snickers into his glass.
Courfeyrac shakes his head. "She's not going to like that answer."
Enjolras frowns. "I don't care what Manon thinks of my policies. She is not here."
Grantaire calls over, entirely unasked, "Yes, well, you don't have to live with her. Give him what for, Courfeyrac."
Courfeyrac tries not to smile at that. "I don't think I want to tell her such a thing, at least not while I'm within arm's reach."
"Henpecked, my boy," comes the mutter from the corner/peanut gallery.
Enjolras doesn't even bother to look over at the annoying little voice. "I shall tell her myself when I see her next. At the moment, though, I really must finish this essay." He heads for the door again.
"Tell me what, Goldilocks?" and Manon sweeps in with a rustle of sensible flannel petticoats. "What are you on about now?"
Enjolras is momentarily flustered. He grips his paper a bit more tightly and clears his throat. "Courfeyrac was telling me that you were concerned about the rights of women under the Republic. I replied that they are irrelevant as things stand now."
Grantaire's eyes widen. Then he gets a perfectly diabolical grin.
Manon's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh really, monsieur."
Enjolras continues undeterred. "After all, we are all slaves of the king today. When we are free tomorrow, we can build our new world, each man taking his own rights for himself."
Grantaire glances over at Courfeyrac, amused.
Courfeyrac gets out of the way.
Manon blinks once, then without hesitation aims a kick at Enjolras' incorruptible shin.
Enjolras does not swear. He very explicitly does not swear. He says, "Ouch!" He grabs the table for support. He looks at Manon and seems quite upset. He asks, "Why did you do that?" but he does not swear.
Grantaire abruptly puts down his glass and folds his arms on the table and buries his face in his arms, very methodically, his shoulders shaking.
Courfeyrac stands still and looks quite torn. "Manon?" He looks at his very upset darling, and then at the wincing leader. "Marcelin?"
Manon eyes Enjolras, quite coolly. "I could say something metaphorical about that being a taste of the pains your poor mother endured to give you to the world, but mostly it was for being an arrogant narrow-minded -- person." He's not the only one who can not swear.
Enjolras realizes that the reprehensible drunkard is laughing at him. He puts his foot down, wincingly only a little, lets go of the table, and scowls at Manon. "I fail to understand why the rights of women are of any greater significance than the rights of man, which are equally insecure."
Courfeyrac waves at Enjolras from the side when he thinks Manon isn't looking. He points frantically at the door and mouths, "Leave! Now!"
Manon says blandly, "When's the last time you had to fend off your landlady's advances, m'sieur?"
Grantaire rakes a hand through his hair and raises his head, not quite grinning.
Enjolras's eyebrows attack each other. "I beg your pardon?"
Manon pursues, "Or support six children whose father's out drinking? Or survive on the pittance you got paid for sewing shirts sixteen hours a day, or spend your day limping from the beating your husband gave you because his dinner was late and he could?"
Enjolras goes to rhetoric. "No one can be truly happy in an unbalanced society."
Courfeyrac shakes his head vehemently and points to the door again.
Grantaire murmurs, "Nice knowing you, Marcelin..." He waves Courfeyrac over. "Sit, man, have a drink, we're out of the line of fire here."
Courfeyrac leaps at the chance for a partial escape and sits next to Grantaire. His hands tremble as he pours himself a glass.
The noise Manon makes can only be described as a snort. "Unbalanced, the boy says. My brother and my girl cousin work at the same factory, he gets paid half again what she does, that's balanced? --You don't want to think about it!" she adds accusatorily.
Enjolras retorts, "Thinking about it can serve no purpose. Did I not just say that the society is unbalanced? There are many problems in the city around us. No worker is equal to his bourgeois neighbor. Is that any worse than your cousin earning less than your brother?"
Grantaire grins lopsidedly at Courfeyrac. "I don't envy you, mon ami."
Courfeyrac looks up at the dueling furies and almost whimpers in his throat. "I don't envy me either."
Manon looks as though she's contemplating throwing her handbag at him. And knowing her, there's a brick in there, or something. "Quit spewing pretty phrases at me and address the question."
At Enjolras, not Courfeyrac, for once.
Enjolras casts about for another way out of this argument. "I shall not be the lawmaker of the Republic, the people will. I cannot assure you of the future. I am only one man."
Grantaire, reckless man, sings out for all the world like a schoolboy, "'S not what you said earlier!"
Enjolras spins to give Grantaire what should, by all rights, be a lethal look. "Go back to your wine and go to sleep if your memory is that faulty."
Manon barely glances at Grantaire. "Oh, indeed." Then she does glance at him, seeing as he's got Enjolras riled, and arches a brow at the latter.
Enjolras turns his back on the stupid winecask. "The very essence of the Republic is that no one man may dictate its laws."
"Ha," says Manon. "You're doing it again."
Enjolras is nearing the end of his never infinite patience. "Doing what?"
Manon makes a little jabbering motion with her hand. "Pontificating at me. I'm not your adoring public."
Grantaire murmurs to his tablemate, "Brave, brave woman. Is she this bad at night?"
Enjolras makes himself take a deep breath. "I am not pontificating. I am explaining the underlying truths of my preferred form of government. Thank heaven that you do not adore me; I doubt I would survive."
Courfeyrac mutters, "Worse," very, very quietly into his mug, and drinks.
Manon snaps, "You're pontificating."
Enjolras says shortly, "I am not!" then catches himself. "I refuse to have an infantile argument with you. I am going home, where I have much more important things that must be accomplished." He strides towards the door.
Manon dodges agilely to block his way. "Ohhh. Important men things. For the Republic. I thought you were only one man."
Enjolras does not push her aside. He simply stops at a rather improper distance. "One man may do all he can to work for the good of all, and, having accomplished his goals, watch in awe as Humanity rules itself."
Courfeyrac pushes his chair back and stands up. "Manon."
At which point it's Manon's turn to make a rude noise, before looking around Enjolras to say sweetly, "Yes, darling?"
Enjolras takes advantage of her distraction to get around her and closer to the door.
Courfeyrac pauses. "I thought it would be a good time to tell you that I love you."
Grantaire sings out in that unsufferably cheery tone, "Evening Enjolras."
Enjolras leaves. He does not flee. He merely strides out the door quickly.
Manon blinks. "I love you too, cher. Not least because you're AMENABLE TO REASON!" she shouts after the departing leader.
Courfeyrac smiles as his slight confidence that she's not about to smack him returns. "I'm glad, darling. Shall we go home, now that your questions have been answered?"
Grantaire dissolves into laughter. "Routed by a skirt, by God. God, he deserved that."
Courfeyrac takes this chance to firmly place himself in Manon's good graces. "He was defeated in heated battle by a highly intelligent and lovely woman, not 'routed by a skirt.' And yes, he did."
Manon snaps at Grantaire, "Don't be offensive," and then: "Dear, I have no questions. I have facts which certain pompous young louts refuse to acknowledge." She moves to slip an arm around his waist.
Grantaire grins at them, unabashed, and toasts them both with his mostly empty glass.
Courfeyrac puts his arm around Manon's shoulders. "Thank you for the wine, friend Grantaire. Shall we, milady?"
Manon gives him that affectionately amused sidelong glance up through her lashes. Who says a suffragette can't be coquettish? "I think we shall, monsieur."
Courfeyrac winks at Grantaire and takes his beautiful companion out the door.