World: Paris
Scene: Where else?
Players: Mathieu = Shawn; Claude = Ann; Darcel = Amy; Enjolras, Joly = Abby
Mathieu sits quietly in the Cafe Musain, sipping from a bottle of wine and reading through this pamphlet he's seen floating about recently. Interesting artwork. Well-written, too.
The door swings open, allowing in a breath of warm, fresh air and sunshine and admitting Claude. She looks around the nearly empty cafe and spots Mathieu reading one of Enjolras' pamphlets. She's immediately on her guard. Putting on a friendly face: "Bonjour, monsieur."
Mathieu glances up at Claude and smiles, setting the pamphlet down. Real people are infinitely more interesting than the written word, especially Enjolras' rather... bombastic prose. "Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?"
"Fine, and you, monsieur?" She glances over the pamphlet.
Mathieu chuckles quietly. "Eh. Solitude in such lovely weather leads to far too much introspection, I feel."
Darcel meanders in from the street, rather resembling one of the fluids that Joly claims are pulled out of sorts by magnetic forces. The magnet in question being the Musain. Though probably the real trouble is a lack of fluid; of the alcoholic kind. "Hell's ice age and heaven's roaring flames, one or the other and we're caught amidst a divine battle over how many logs to heap on the fire," he mutters beneath his breath.
Claude smiles. "That's true, and it is a beautiful day out." She glances over as Grantaire enters. "Good morning, grand-R," she calls over to him. Gesturing to a chair at Mathieu's table: "May I?"
Mathieu nods, still smiling quietly. "Who am I to refuse you? By all means, please sit."
Darcel laboriously hauls a hand through his hair, though whether the wry expression has a reason of its own or is due to the tangles thus encountered is a matter for conjecture. "Mam'selle. M'sieur. Morning. Debatable about 'good,' though. I've never yet encountered a morning who wasn't bleary-eyed and sour." Plods a few steps further into the cafe, and leans on the wall.
In at the other door, at this point, comes Enjolras: tousled as though he just got out of bed, which, it being nearly nine o'clock, is probably not the case. He shuts the door behind him, pausing to take in the scene. "Dufresne. Mam'selle. --Grantaire." In artistically symmetrical descending order of warmth.
Mathieu nods politely to Enjolras, smiling. "Well. I see that any solitude problems I may have had are rapidly righting themselves..."
Claude nods to him. "Enjolras." Proceeds to ignore him, as that usually solves any arguments. She turns back to Mathieu. "I'm terribly sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Claudette Prouvaire." She extends a hand. To be shaken.
Mathieu takes the hand and shakes it, Claudette's attitude proving quite clearly that he is not to be over-polite, or she'll probably hit him, and he's a thinker, not a fighter. "A pleasure, Mademoiselle Prouvaire. Mathieu Dufresne, at your service."
Enjolras glances ceilingward, very briefly, at Claude's greeting, but doesn't comment on it; merely crosses to a table not far from theirs and deposits his books, neatly.
Darcel raises one hand over his eyes. "Solitude? This place attracts people like an execution does spectators-- and we might get a few of those. Morning, Apollo. You can get sun blighted even indoors, in this place."
Enjolras shoots him a scowl, but disdains to reply. Yet.
Claude half-smiles as Grantaire again addresses Enjolras by his unwanted nickname. "Pleased to meet you, M. Dufresne," she replies to Mathieu.
Mathieu smiles. "And likewise, Mlle. Prouvaire." He can't help but to glance between Enjolras and Grantaire, murmuring, "Such joy, to see two comrades-in-arms who get along so well..."
The street door swings open, admitting Joly, or rather Joly's head. "Is -- ah, Claude. Are you coming? You're going to be late."
Claude looks up at Joly's voice, puzzled for a moment, then gasps. "Gods, I'd nearly forgotten. Thank you, Alex. I'm terribly sorry to have to depart so soon, M. Dufresne, but my classmate and myself are due at a lecture in just a few minutes."
Mathieu nods, smiling once more. "Enjoy yourself, Mademoiselle."
Claude makes a face as she stands. "I wish I could. It'll be deathly boring." Nods to Enjolras, though she knows it's a futile gesture, shouts a good-bye to Grantaire, and joins Joly at the door.
Enjolras glances over, blinking: then his face clears. "Good morning, mademoiselle," he puts in, nearly friendly.
Darcel looks up with tolerably sharpness at the sudden movement of the door. "And blasted by gales as well; whoever was the fool that said 'there's no place like home'? In is no better than out-- don't let them stuff too much nonsense in your head, mam'selle."
Joly waves to the others, and ducks out again.
Mathieu glances to Darcel. "You are a singularly bitter man, m'sieu."
Claude rolls her eyes at Joly as Enjolras kindly bids her goodbye and answers Grantaire: "I'll do my best to avoid it, grand-R." Follows Joly out the door, her mind already on the upcoming lecture as she asks him a question about something from the text.
Blue eyes flick to Mathieu, and away again with conscious patience. Right, Dufresne. Encourage the man to rant, as though he needs any encouragement. Enjolras kicks out a chair and sits, flipping a book open.
Darcel shrugs and drops into the nearest chair. Why the hell is he still on his feet in this heat? "Bitter, M'sieur? By Prometheus' scorched fingers, no. Between the bellowing of the weak, the whining of the strong, God's lost rulebook, Satan's third rate demons' horns and the appalling tendency of life to imitate art and art to imitate the pretentiousness of the mediocre, the world's soured enough without me bothering to be. I just don't try to see if pepper and gunpowder'll mend the rancid brew." Smiles faintly in the direction of the studiously occupied statue.
Mathieu smirks. "Ah, so you live in a rotten core of a world, and are content to do nothing about it?"
Enjolras fails to react, except for a slight tightening of the jaw and perhaps a little more force in turning the page than is entirely needed.
Darcel chuckles and gestures for some wine. "Content? Bah, find me a man who's content and I'll show you one with better acting skills than most. And I'll guarantee you he won't be on the stage. Everything rots, and prodding at it won't help."
Mathieu snorts. "And whining about it will?"
"Don't bother," advises Enjolras, glancing up coolly. "I have tried. Others have tried. He refuses to listen."
Darcel slumps on his elbows. "Not that I've noticed. Passes the time, though." Inclines his head at Enjolras. "Our omniscient deity judges. Incorrigible."
Mathieu nods sagely. "So you are, by your own admission, even more worthless than the rest of the world, then?" He smiles quietly.
"I have asked you repeatedly--" Enjolras begins, and then seems to realize he is ignoring his own advice, and shuts up, turning back to his book.
"Asked-- Hah. If you didn't give orders from the peak of Olympus, oh humble mortal amidst the multitude of others--" Darcel concludes his ironic declamation by sweeping up the bottle placed before him. Then, more softly: "All right, 'Jolras." He turns back to Mathieu. "Why compare one rag with another? Both are filthy, why bother with aesthetically pleasing stains. I judge nothing."
Mathieu raises a brow. "Oh? You seem to be judging M'sieu Enjolras quite harshly, sir."
Enjolras does not look up again until the end of this address, and then it's more in mild surprise mingled with resignation than in anger. He slants a quizzical glance at Mathieu. New boy's going to defend him, is he?
Darcel spreads the fingers of one hand. "Him? God knows, I wouldn't presume. Might be smited."
Mathieu chuckles. "Indeed? I beg to differ, M'sieu. The good Lord knows that M'sieu Enjolras and myself have differences of opinion, and I have stated such in the past. And I stand here before you, whole and unsmited." He continues. "This leads me to believe that your convictions are not as firm as you might believe, M'sieu, and as such, perhaps could use some shoring up. If you do not feel that an uprising is the answer, why then, what is?"
Enjolras snorts slightly, but doesn't interrupt.
Darcel laughs, short and harsh. "My convictions? Changeable as a woman's affections, or the opinions of the mob. Don't throw those at me, they're not worth the word they're spoken with." Pours himself a glass-- civilised, today, not drinking straight from the bottle-- and swallows half of it. "Answers, as if life was a children's exercise book. I was no good at mathematics and I can't add up the disordered sum that is life." With mildly amused exasperation: "Always someone trying to rouse up the charred embers of debate."
Mathieu chuckles. "So you have no firm views, you have no expectations, and you just don't particularly care."
"Which does not prevent him from plaguing those of us who do." Enjolras turns a page deliberately.
Mathieu shrugs and stands. "So it goes, one supposes. Interesting pamphlet, by the by." And with that, he heads for the door.
Possibly Enjolras is chastened by this. "Good morning," he returns, mildly enough.
Darcel salutes the world, such as it is, with his glass. "So it goes, M'sieur, and God's not yet obliterated me for my lack of faith. He's too busy wondering why the hell he made so many stars when he can only afford to keep them lit for half a day-- morning." He shrugs after the departing man and then grins across at the other. "'Course not, Apollo. Liberty, equality and fraternity, isn't it? The right to be as irritating as every other inhabitant of this world."
"Don't call me that," automatically. "Yes, you play with words very prettily. You know as well as I do that annoying people was not part of the intent."
Darcel inclines his head. "No, you gilded protege of that corpse, Brutus; just to set them all alight with prettier words than any of mine and see whether the smoke'll drag you to heaven or hell. But an inferno's an inferno, up or down."
Enjolras rests his head in one hand for a moment. "God, you're impossible. You're beyond belief."
Darcel smiles faintly. "Not quite, Enjolras, but near enough. And near enough's closer than most things get."
Enjolras looks up again, frowning. His tone, however, has softened fractionally. Maybe it's just the relief of hearing his proper name. "I know you can talk reasonably. I've heard you. Rarely, but you're capable of it when you try. Why won't you? Why the endless stream of nonsense about dead heroes and fatalism?"
Darcel twists the glass in his fingers. "Why not? Why the endless and futile quest to save the world? Passes a day, passes a life. And no one cares, really. Words are just air hacked out of your throat and laden with the tedious burden of thoughts. Whatever the thoughts, the sound's the same, more or less. My way's unlikely to get me killed."
"There are worse things." Enjolras regards him sternly. "What happens when you come to be eighty, and look back and see that you've done nothing whatever with all those years?"
Darcel stops playing with the glass long enough to drink it. "An acute attack of remorse, I suppose?" Shakes his head. "At eighty I'll be senile and I won't give a damn. So, what of it then? Strive in your youth and dither in your dotage? Build your castles in the air and hope you don't live long enough to see them torn down? Fine enterprise that is. Just skip all the fallen architecture and go to the end. It's not worth watching the structure tumble."
Bang! the fine-boned hand comes down on the table. "That is exactly what I mean! How do you know that? How do you know what's worth doing if you never do anything? Are you such a Godforsaken coward that you won't even take the chance of living?"
"Godforsaken? Probably. Coward? Damn likely. What's courage but stupidity with a medal? Not much point to living if it gets you killed and not much point to dying if you're going to go through the trauma of living." Facetiousness aside, markedly quiet, he puts the glass down. "And how d'you know the other way, Apollo? You take things too personally, mon ami. Break tables, or your hand, over nothing, and go declaiming and recruiting about even less."
"It's not nothing." Enjolras is quiet now, too, nearly tremulous. "Damn you, what do I have to say to you, what do I have to do? What does it take to make you hear?"
Darcel stands, abruptly leaning on his chair. "I hear you. God-- hard not to, shouting like Pericles, or Cicero, like one of those Homeric fools with a sword in your hand, like... I hear you. You're mad, all of you. Can't teach that, it just catches like plague. And is just as effective. Die fighting it, live with the scars or duck it all together."
Enjolras pushes to his feet. This is easier to deal with. "I'm trying to do something useful with my life. What you're always holding up as reasons to blot out your consciousness, we are trying to eliminate. Trying to improve something, for God's sake, is that madness?"
Darcel slumps back into his chair again, regarding the towering statue with bland admiration. "Utter, Apollo, and probably incurable. Castles in the air, and the way that is, not very good building blocks."
Enjolras stares at him a minute stormily. "Damn you," he says then, his voice rough, and catches up his books and heads blindly for the door. So much for quiet study.
"Already am." Hauls himself upright again, one hand extended after the departing statue. "Enjolras-- damn." Drops back into his chair. Futility, after all. "Like arguing with a bloody firework. Scorches both of you, and you can't see to mend the damage." Shakes his head, sadly, and reaches for the bottle again.