World: Paris
Scene: Café Musain, probably 1831.
Players: Courfeyrac = Daisy; Musichetta = Meghan; Manon = Abby
Courfeyrac glances up at the lovely girl in front of him and swallows quickly. "Hey, have a seat," he invites. "A pretty girl like you, running around all alone? Where are your escorts today?" He moves to pour her a glass of wine from his bottle."
Musichetta against her better judgement sits down. "I don't have an escort," she admits.
Courfeyrac squints a little. "Aren't you Joly's -- er, Bos... Nevermind. Musichetta, right?" He takes up her hand and plants a kiss on it. "I'm Courfeyrac. I've heard a great deal about you."
"I'm Musichetta, yes..." Musichetta is intrigued by him. "What have you heard?"
Courfeyrac falters for only a moment. "I've heard you're a very generous and sweet lady." He hands her the glass. "And your friends couldn't live without you."
Musichetta looks at the glass for a moment, then smiles at him.. "I think you're lying." She puts the glass down. "Thank you very much for your attention, M'sieur Courfeyrac, but I'm afraid I must be going."
Chandler blinks. "I'm not lying! Oh, wait, don't... what did I...?"
At this moment the door swings open and a slim dark-haired figure enters with a brisk swishing of petticoats. Halts, just inside the door. "Good evening."
"Oh, God." Musichetta turns on Courfeyrac. "See what you've done now!"
"Done?" he splutters. "I haven't done anything!" He looks to Manon in appeal. "I just tried to be chivalrous."
Musichetta says angrily, "I don't know who you are, Madam, but this man is lying. He was not chivalrous."
Manon raises her eyebrows. "Why, what's the matter, girl? --Cheri. Imagine meeting you here." With chin tilted at an angle of coquettish danger.
Musichetta falters a bit. "He-- well, I was looking for a friend I was supposed to meet here- " she falls silent, unsure of what to say.
Courfeyrac sits back down weakly. "I just offered her a glass of wine! That's it!" he whimpers.
Manon blinks slowly at him. "Did anyone say it wasn't, dear?"
Musichetta gasps. "And you kissed my hand! I don't know what you though to accomplish with your advances, but I don't appreciate it!"
"Gentlemen kiss ladies' hands on greeting!" He blushes. "I was not advancing!" Not yet..
"A gentleman..." Musichetta laughs.
Manon smirks. "Of course." In a swirl of skirts she crosses to the table and rests her hands on the back of an empty chair. "He does that to all the girls, don't you, Chandler?"
"Does he call all the girls pretty and ask them where their escorts are?" demands Musichetta righteously.
"Usually, yes," Chandler agrees.
Musichetta looks unsteadily between the two. "And this man is your beloved, Madame? Have you no shame?"
In an instant Manon's manner goes from brittlely bantering to outright dangerous. "Pardon me, little one?"
Musichetta stands up. "Well, it seems to me that a man who kisses the hands of women he has never met before and asks where their escorts are must not have much in the way of virtue, non?"
Courfeyrac looks astonished. Ohdear. "I was concerned for your safety, Mamselle. You're my friends'... friend, and I wouldn't want to see harm come to you." At least she's insulting him now, and not Manon.
Manon laughs shortly. "If that's all he did, ma petite, stop squalling and be flattered. At least he doesn't think you're easy." A black look at poor Courfeyrac.
Musichetta looks at him sympathetically. "I have no quarrel with you. You are a man... you do not know any better. It is your Mademoiselle here whom I have a quarrel with. Men are like dogs. It is a woman's job to keep them in line. It would seem your love is not doing her job well."
"You think so," purrs Manon.
Courfeyrac was, of course, under the impression that Musichetta was easy. But no one needs to know that now. "Hey! We keep each other in line, thank you very much!" He glances to Manon, looking for approval.
Musichetta laughs. "If your Courfeyrac cannot behave himself around other women, I would find fault in you rather than him."
Manon slaps the table in an incongruously masculine gesture. "Right. You, mademoiselle, are not only a slut but meddlesome too. My advice to you is to back away slowly."
Courfeyrac, feeling more than a tad guilty and frightened, follows Manon's advice to Musichetta.
Musichetta shakes her head, her eyes narrow. "A slut? Dearest Mademoiselle, if I am a slut because I am not tied down to such a --" waves her hand at Courfeyrac in disdain. "Such an error of humanity, then it is true! I suppose I am a slut."
Manon shoots a glance at Courfeyrac that speaks volumes, and leans on the table. "Listen, you bitch. If he makes a pass at you, that's a mark against him. If you pass judgment on him, that's several marks against you. Don't make me angry, cherie."
Musichetta moves her head sharply. "And if I do? Do you think that I'm frightened of you, you egotistical--"
Chandler realizes he's sealing his own fate by cowering, he moves to stand between them. "Ladies, please. Let's not... this is so unpleasant... I'll admit to being a cad, I wasn't going to, but if you want to think so.. just don't..."
Without so much as a blink, Manon picks up the glass and wings it with deadly accuracy at Musichetta's pretty head.
Musichetta ducks deftly. The glass shatters against the wall. "Lovely aim, Mademoiselle."
Chandler reaches out to take Manon's hands. "Sunshine, don't... let's just go..."
Manon's fingers dig into Courfeyrac's wrist. "This little bitch," she says very, very softly, "is not going to get away with this. Take your hands off me."
Musichetta grabs his arm. "You would leave us girls without finishing our discussion? You are more of a cad than I thought."
"--and get your hands off him, whore!"
Musichetta takes her hand off Courfeyrac's arm slowly. "What's the matter? Do you think he'll notice how much prettier I am and desert you?"
Chandler pulls his hands back to himself. "Fine. Get arrested, both of you." He takes a step back.
Musichetta only glances at him before fixing her gaze on Manon.
"Don't make me laugh." Manon's chin tilts upward. "Take back the insults, or you won't be pretty anymore."
Musichetta laughs lightly. "And at your advanced age, what could you possibly do to take my looks away?"
Chandler slips quietly over to the door and hands the waitress five francs to Not See Anything, and not seat anyone else in this room.
Musichetta motions him back over. "Leaving so soon, M'sieur? The fun has just started."
Manon smirks thinly. "Do you really want to try me, little one?"
Musichetta smiles widely. "I could ask you the same thing."
"Come on! What will this prove? Can't you just realize that you don't agree, you will never agree, and just go your separate ways?" He very much doubts anyone is listening to him.
Manon laughs outright. "Oh, please. If you can't do better than that, cherie, you'd better give up the argument. Now take back the naughty words. When you grow up you'll learn not to talk like that about men you don't know.... in any sense." She throws an irritable look at Courfeyrac, who might be a little less philosophical about being talked about like that.
Musichetta sighs in exasperation. "I've given you quite enough leeway, Mademoiselle. What you might want to do is get out of this cafe now, to save your own sorry skin and that of your pathetic cohort as well."
Manon laughs again, breathlessly. "Who the hell do you think you are, petite?"
Musichetta looks skyward, as if to hold back laughter. "Whoever I am, I assure you that you will not want to tangle with me!"
"I'm trembling." Manon smirks at her again, standing poised beside the chair.
Courfeyrac is hardly one to talk back to a lady he doesn't know very well, in spite of Manon's Look. There must be a better way. He slips out of the room once more and returns with a bucket of water, which he throws over both of them.
Musichetta shrieks. "What the hell??"
...and Manon lets out a squawk of outrage as she's abruptly drenched.
"See what I mean, Mademoiselle? Your love is out of control. And it's your fault!" The cold has seemed to strike all the wit and repartee out of Musichetta.
"By God, Chandler--" is the first thing Manon says when she can speak again, and then, "oh, my God. If you weren't such a stupid little tart, I'd kill you." She shoves a dripping tress out of her eyes. "Right. We are leaving now, and so help me, little one, if I ever see your smirking face around here again, you'll wish you'd kept to the gutter." With that she pushes away from the table and turns, heading out the door, snatching Courfeyrac's sleeve on the way.
"This is not over, bitch." Musichetta spits out each word.
Courfeyrac breathes a sigh of relief. Then he realizes that with no Musichetta to take it out on, it's going to be taken out on him. He prepares himself for the worst, and follows his beloved.
Musichetta stares after them sullenly. "What a nice young man," she murmurs. "And what a stupid bitch his woman is."