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‘I know I can count on you, my friend,’ said Enjolras and Jehan could weep for the beauty of him. Their glorious republic shone through him, through his solemn face and stern figure and that future of love and freedom was just so beautiful. With a touch to Jehan’s shoulder, Enjolras had gone, leaving Jehan alone with the ringing of destiny in his ears. Jehan gathered himself. It was time to find Bahorel. They were to carry out a mission for the Société and Enjolras had just given them their tasks. Bahorel would love this mission, he was always happy when he can use his particular talents for chaos for their cause. Jehan rushed out the empty backroom in search for his friend. The weather outside was dark and melancholy, a dripping rain fit to weep poets’ souls out of their bodies in anguished ink. But Jehan was on a mission and could not pause to compose a stanza or two.
Now, where could Bahorel be in the late afternoon? Jehan thought to himself. Certainly not the law school, Jehan would not do his friend the dishonour to search there. His lodgings, maybe, but the chance was slim. His mistress was currently not receiving him, having found a warmer embrace in the hearts and arms of other ladies. This was a regular occurrence and not something Bahorel seemed concerned about at all. This left only half of Paris to search through. Jehan decided to take a circuitous route to Bahorel’s lodgings, past a few of their favourite cafés to pray to the Goddess of Luck to stumble upon him by chance. He found many people he had not intended to find, including L’aigle, who lost his pocketbook again and needed someone to pay for the cannèles he had just ordered for Musichetta. Jehan did so, because he still owed Bossuet for distracting Davide yesterday when the odious man had been attempting to give Jehan literary criticism. Davide couldn’t pierce through the shield of Lesgles’ genial pun-encrusted nonsense and Jehan escaped without having to hear what a man who carried an umbrella thought of Jehan’s experimental metaphors. Well worth the price of some cannèles which would make Musichetta happy, which in turn would make Joly happy which would lead to a greater general happiness throughout Paris. Bossuet had not seen Bahorel, but could narrow the search down considerably by detailing every place his wanderings this afternoon had brought him. With more direction, Jehan continued on, ignoring the look his doublet and feather topped hat drew from the bourgeoises out shopping. He noticed, of course, but before he could even blush and consider whether yellow had been a good choice for such a dreary day he heard Bahorel’s booming laugh from a ways over. Jehan hastened his pace, determined not to let his friend slip away in the crowd. Bahorel, for all his loud behaviour and outrageous fashion, could be annoyingly hard to find when he decided to become one with the throngs of Parisians. He found him backing out of a café still laughing loudly. His waistcoat was a lovely purple, marred with dark red. His face was bruised, a grotesque sight of purple and green blooming on his handsome face. Jehan ran over to embrace him.
‘Bahorel,’ he cried, as Bahorel hugged him energetically enough his boots left the floor. He smelled wildly of wine and Jehan felt relieved. It was wine on his waistcoat, not blood.
‘Have you gotten into a fight again?’ Jehan asked, tracing the bruise blooming on his jaw.
‘Merely a similarity of opinion,’ said Bahorel brightly, righting the hat on his head, ‘a shared belief that some offenses can only be cleared away by letting loose one’s wilder emotions. ’He flexed his hands and inspected his appearance in the window of a shocked boulanger. He frowned.
‘Walk me to my lodgings, Prouvaire? We have much to discuss and my waistcoat is in dire need of intervention.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jehan, looking around them furtively, ‘but it is better spoken of in your rooms.’ He tried to communicate with the force of his eyes that this was no mere social matter, but business of a higher order entirely. Bahorel nodded his understanding.
‘well, help me pick a fresh waistcoat and tell me all about it.’
Jehan clutched his arm.
‘I do not think this can wait,’ said Jehan urgently. ‘Are you absolutely certain,’ said Bahorel, looking down at himself, ‘if we are quick I might be able to save this waistcoat.’
Jehan shook his head fervently. ‘Remember Bertrand Dumoulin? He joined us a few nights back with pleasing interest in—children’s education. But now’ Jehan cast around for an appropriate way to cloak his words yet convey his message. He landed upon Othello, which they had been reading with great relish last night. ‘Now, it seems he has Iago’s bent and would see fair Desdemona dead.’ Bahorel’s grin got sharper. ‘Is that so,’ he asked dangerously and his figure seemed to grow larger, loom stronger.
‘We do not know for certain, but our fair Othello-‘ Jehan frowned at the imperfect metaphor, ‘- requires us to find him, to convince him we are…’ Jehan sighed and pulled the metaphor across genres, ‘that we are merely rude mechanicals and have no more serious bent. Or, perhaps to dissuade him from our society by some other means. In any case he does not know our suspicions and should not learn them.’
The feather on Jean’s hat was drooping, but his spirit was soaring. To be the Republic’s first line of defence, to be her protector, was a cause as noble as any knight could boast of. Bahorel decisively turned them in the opposite direction.
‘I know where he’ll be at this hour, I know his latest mistress and she’ll surely make him dance attendance. Now do play along and pretend my waistcoat is stained with blood instead of inferior wine. We’ll frighten him out of his wits and convince him no police silver can be worth the social disgrace of being counted among our numbers. I know his kind, panting to be secretaries to their father’s boring friends. Ha!’ Bahorel’s pace was getting faster and faster. Jehan had to lengthen his strides to keep up.
‘Tis a pity we can’t go by my rooms to pick up some props. Although,’ Bahorel looked Jehan up and down properly for the first time that day, ‘perfect. Slavish propriety would not dare to come near you, Jehan Prouvaire.’
Jehan beamed at the compliment.
They arrived at the street Dumoulin’s mistress lodged at just in time to see the man himself emerge from the doorway. Bahorel ducked behind the neighbour’s rain-drenched wisteria and whistled loudly.
‘Psssst Bertrand, over here!’ Bahorel hissed in something that could only charitably be called a whisper. ‘Dumoulin, over here, we need your help!’
Dumoulin looked up with a start to where Jehan was ineffectually hiding himself behind Bahorel. He walked over with a suspicious look on his face.
‘Bahorel, Prouvaire,’he nodded courteously to them both, ‘What brings you here?’
He looked closer to Bahorel, who ceased his attempts to stay out of sight of the doorway, ‘and what happened to your face?’
‘It’s a full moon, you see,’ said Jehan with full conviction,’ haven’t you noticed the draw to violence whenever Selene shows herself fully?’
Bahorel nodded urgently. ‘We need your help,’ Bahorel said again, and pulled a resisting Dumoulin into the closest dark alley. Jehan followed closely, observing carefully. Dumoulin looked wary, too wary for a man pulled aside by his friends. It was almost like there was an edge of guilt to his looks.
Jehan got a little closer, looked around furtively, letting the bright yellow wet feather slap the traitor in the face. Dumoulin looked offended, but that was not enough. He needed to be encouraged to never frequent the Amis’ circles again. Jehan caught Bahorel’s eyes and they nodded decisively at each other. The had done this once before, when they convinced a classicist journalist they were suffering of a catching madness, scared the fellow enough he ran, leaving his notes for a scathing review behind. The same double assault, an attack from both sides, would be useful here. It was not yet dusk, but the rainclouds simulated nightfall so perfectly Jehan could not have wished for a better stage.
‘Bertrand,’ he said, grasping the man’s hand beseechingly, ‘please say we can trust you, you are our only hope.’
He made sure to make his eyes large and fearful and to not let on he saw the flicker of Dumoulin’s traitorous thoughts simmer in his eyes.
Dumoulin smiled soothingly at Jehan, preferring to look at him instead of Bahorel, large and wild and standing a little too close.
‘Of course my friends, what do you need?’
Jehan fell around his shoulders, kissed his cheeks and praised his name tearfully. Dumoulin looked mildly overwhelmed but tried to hide it and Jehan felt very proud of his performance.
‘We need meat, raw meat, and quickly,’ whispered Jehan in Dumoulin’s ear. Bahorel barked a surprised laugh. Dumoulin too, was very surprised. He freed himself from Jehan’s clinging embrace to look at the two of the quizzically.
‘Meat? Why? For your bruises?’
He turned his eyes to Bahorel. ‘What happened to your face friend, who did you fight?’ He probably thought he could get information out of them. How wrong he was. Dumoulin’s neat appearance was carefully getting ruined. Jehan’s embrace had creased his collars and moistened his coat and his neatly combed hair was disordered by the press of Jehan’s soaked velvet hat.
‘I was attacked by a man of incredible strength,’ improvised Bahorel, eager to see what exactly Jehan had planned.
‘It could not have been a man,’ interjected Jehan with wide eyes, ‘no mere man can beat Bahorel. This was a monster.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Bahorel, catching Jehan’s drift ‘I did not see him, but he was upon me in an instant and before I know it I woke up, my waistcoat covered in blood, not knowing where I was.’ Dumoulin took in Bahorel’s haggard appearance and his eyes widened.
‘Who did you quarrel with that you were attacked in such a manner?’
“We don’t know,’ Jehan said fearfully, ’But I found him, neck half torn open as if by claws’ Jehan dragged Dumoulin closer, whispered in his ear, ‘and before my very eyes, the wounds healed.’ Bahorel helpfully tilted his head to show off his strong neck, unmarred by anything but old scars. Dumoulin let out a scathing laugh, clearly disbelieving. And yet he backed away when Bahorel advanced with prowling steps. Jehan put on a worried expression to hide his gleeful delight at how Bahorel had allowed his movements to become bestial. Bahorel advanced, eyes on Dumoulin’s throat and sniffed the air next to his head.
‘I’m hungry, Bertrand,’ he rumbled in his deepest voice, face too close to Dumoulin and pressing him into the wall. Jehan put a soft hand on Bahorel’s shoulder, pulling him away. Bahorel played along, straining as if on a leash.
‘I can’t leave him, but Bertrand, can’t you please find him some meat? The fresher the better,’ implored Jehan, petting Bahorel’s shoulder soothingly.
‘Fresh, bloody meat,’ repeated Bahorel in hungry tones, eyes not leaving Dumoulin’s throat. He really did look made of sharp teeth and animal strength and Jehan understood why Dumoulin couldn’t stop his horrified shiver. Time to convince the traitor once and for all that interfering with the Amis would spell his doom in bright, bloodred letters.
Jehan pulled Dumoulin’s attention back towards himself again, looked at him beseechingly.
‘If we can only get him some meat before nightfall, we can avoid other horrors. We’ll be safe.’
Bahorel growled, low and inhuman. Jehan let his voice go scared, seized Dumoulin by his boring white cravat and spoke urgently right into his face. ‘Maybe if we hurry, if he gets meat before moonrise, we may avert disaster!’
Dumoulin tried to stumble away, but Jehan held him fast. He tried to reason with them, but Jehan and Bahorel would not hear him.
‘He needs a doctor, not a butcher! And what does moonrise have to do with it? If he was attacked he should go to the police, not me!’ Fear and alarm were taking over his traitorous face.
‘Don’t you know it’s the full moon tonight?’ wailed Jehan desperately, shaking Dumoulin so frantically his head knocked into the wall. Jehan could hear Bahorel step up behind him, could feel him loom over his shoulder. The deep rumbling continued, a pleasant sound in Jehan’s ear and a harrowing one in Dumoulin’s, exactly how they wanted it.
‘Don’t you know about the moonsickness? He’s one of Lycaon’s creatures now!’ Jehan cried out in anguish and pushed Dumoulin away, further into the alley, scraping and catching on the rough brick. Bahorel chose that moment to snap his teeth in the air where Dumoulin’s head had been.
‘You’re mad!’ Dumoulin said with a pale face, backing away, slipping on puddles as Bahorel advanced on him with stalking steps.
‘It’s too late Bertrand, run!’
Bahorel howled like a madman and leapt towards Dumoulin, who took off running. Jehan stayed back to admire the animal grace on display when Bahorel gave chase. The moment Dumoulin was around the corner and out of sight, fled into the warren of little back alleys and private gardens, Bahorel straightened and dusted off his coat. He grinned broadly at Jehan who rushed over to reward his fine performance with a firm kiss. He took Bahorel’s hand in his own which, aside from the cracked knuckles, were very nicely maintained and did not even remotely resemble sharp claws.
‘That was the finest performance I have ever seen!’ praised Jehan with stars in his eyes.
‘Why thank you Prouvaire,’ said Bahorel grinning proudly and putting an arm around Jehan’s shoulders. ‘I felt I did the part great justice. And my thanks to you for suggesting it, it would never have occurred to me to use that particular ploy. It was inspired, truly.’ He nuzzled his face into Jehan’s cold neck so Jehan could feel the smile pressing into his skin.
‘Now let us tell our chief that the informer is well and truly scared off.’
Bahorel looked down at himself. ‘Or perhaps we might make ourselves presentable first. And now you have mentioned it, I am fearfully hungry.’
Jehan agreed their report could wait and let Bahorel lead him out of the damp alley. Suddenly, Bahorel stopped walking.
‘Jehan?’
‘Yes Bahorel?’
‘You do know that the full moon isn’t until next Tuesday, right?’
Jehan laughed. ‘Of course, I’m holding a seance to commune with Ovid then, I wouldn’t forget that.’
Bahorel relaxed and then tensed all over again. ‘What do you mean a seance next Tuesday?’ He shot Jehan a wounded look. ‘You are a cruel friend, Jehan Prouvaire, to commune with spirits when I cannot join you.’
Jehan ran a consoling hand through Bahorel’s wet hair. ‘I cannot help it the veil is thin at moonfull, Bahorel. Sad as it is you cannot join us, you can hardly blame me for the supernatural being attracted to the full moon. You of all people.’
Bahorel did not seem appeased by this logic, so Jehan scratched his beard lightly, a sure-fire way to gain Bahorel’s forgiveness for any offence. Bahorel’s eyes fluttered closed.
‘Fine,’ he said, pushing into Jehan’s touch, ‘but I rely on you to arrange a new moon seance soon. Who’s to say the lack of light mightn’t entice spirits just the same?’
Jehan could readily agree on that. He had long since decided that the occult and supernatural ought to be invited in one’s life at every opportunity. Arm in arm and speaking of ghosts and the macabre, the two happily rejoined the throngs of regular Parisians, goals accomplished and plans made.