Work Text:
Musichetta was not even planning to go out that evening.
In the five months since she arrived in Paris, she had spent so many evenings immersed in a whirlwind of parties, parties full of drunken men with dubious intentions. She was effectively a runaway, running away from the dullness both of the countryside -- and away from the man she had been betrothed to, a man who had seen fit to belittle and hurt her at every opportunity. That spring she had found her way to Paris -- a place she had only been once in her life -- with only a small sum of money to her name and two dresses in her bag, seeking a new start.
Once in the city, she had taken a position in a dressmaker’s shop and rented a room in a boardinghouse: while the job was tiring and often tedious, and her rooms were rather shabby -- more than once she had seen a mouse dart across the room -- it was certainly an improvement over her previous life. She had been pursued by a few suitors, but she chose to keep them all at bay: after her experiences in with her former fiance, she did not trust their intentions, and was not eager to surrender her freedom -- at least not yet.
On a cool evening in October, she was planning to spend her free time completely alone with a new book -- until one of the other boardinghouse residents poked her head into Musichetta’s room. “Are you planning to go to the party with the medical school students tonight?” she asked, her tone hinting that she was seeking company.
Musichetta shook her head. “I was not planning on it,” she replied. “I have not heard very good things about those students,” she added, wrinkling her nose, referring to their legendary debauchery and rampant misbehavior -- something she certainly did not need in her life now, if ever.
“Oh, they are not so bad!” the girl assured her. “They behave no worse than any other boy of their station. Come, Musichetta -- it will be fun.”
Musichetta hesitated for just a moment longer, pondering the possibilities. She had been looking forward to her quiet evening -- but it had been almost two weeks since she had gone out in the evening, and she felt an unexpected yearning for the company of someone other than herself and her rambling thoughts. “Give me until about half past?” she asked, glancing at the modest clock on the table.
Her friend grinned at her. “I knew I could persuade you,” she threw back over her shoulder as she went back to her own room to prepare for the evening ahead.
And Musichetta rose from the bed to dress, allowing her own enthusiasm to grow, pushing any doubts to the back of her mind.
**
By the time they arrived at the party, there was already a sizeable crowd assembled: young men were lounging everywhere with drinks in their hands, bantering with the various grisettes who had gathered around them. As they entered the room a young man pushed a glass of wine into Musichetta’s hand, then staggered away before she could even thank him.
“Look at those two boys over there,” her friend said, tilting her head to indicating two tall students standing in the corner awkwardly. First year students, Musichetta concluded, judging by their youth and their general unease, who had likely not been in Paris very long themselves. The blond one shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, talking animatedly to the dark-haired one, who was lighting his pipe and nodding sagely at his friend’s monologue.
“What about them?” Musichetta said, sipping the poor quality wine and trying to sound blase, even as her curiosity was piqued by these two young men. They seemed different from the teeming masses around them, whose main preoccupations were wine and women -- they were more serious, more earnest -- and more than a little appealing.
"So handsome," her friend said with a sigh.
"But so young," Musichetta sighed in return. All of these men were so young, and the fact that the people of France would soon be depending on them for their very lives was somewhat unnerving. “So, so young.”
"We are not that young," came a terse voice, belonging to the blond with the glasses, who was suddenly standing next to them. "We may be new to Paris, but that does not mean we are complete babes in the woods."
Musichetta looked up at him and laughed. "I would dispute that, Monsieur --"
"Combeferre, Mademoiselle," he said, taking Musichetta’s hand and bowing over it, then doing the same with her friend, who could not contain her delight. "And this is my friend Joly," he added, indicating his dark-haired friend, who had slipped in to stand behind him.
"We were wondering if perhaps you two ladies would like to join us for a drink," Joly proposed, his green eyes never leaving Musichetta’s as the invitation was issued.
"But I have a drink already," Musichetta said dryly, lifting her glass to her lips as she looked Joly up and down: she could not help but to notice the elegance of his hands, or the bemused smile he was trying unsuccessfully to repress.
“But you could join us for another,” suggested Combeferre.
“It would be medicinal, would it not?” Joly added, raising his eyebrows hopefully. “Doctor’s orders?”
Musichetta smiled, knowing any further resistance was futile. “Well, in that case then -- I guess I am required to say yes,” she said, as Joly took her arm, his smile growing remarkably wider as they moved to another corner of the room.
And his joy began to grow on her.
**
At first the conversation was polite and superficial: inquiries about the women’s work and the men’s studies, some discussion of books, a brief flurry of excitement as Musichetta and Combeferre chatted about a play they both coincidentally had seen. As the wine flowed more freely, Musichetta and Joly found themselves drawn into conversation with each other, sitting on one of the settees sharing confidences, their friends completely forgotten. Joly told Musichetta about growing up in the south, about his family, about how he had come to study medicine, even describing his elaborate theories on the alignment of his bed and its relationship to his sleeping patterns. She found a comfort in him that she had not ever found before in a man, and soon she was sharing stories about her own life that she had never shared with anyone she had met in Paris: about the circumstances that brought her there, and the circumstances she found herself in now.
As they talked, out of the corner of her eye Musichetta could see her friend gradually edging closer to Combeferre, stroking his sleeve ever so gently as he swallowed hard.
He will not be sleeping alone tonight, Musichetta thought to herself -- a prediction that came to pass not half an hour later, when her friend feigned sleepiness and Combeferre made an excuse about an early lecture, and they departed separately, their charade fooling no one.
“Do you think they will go to her rooms or his?” Joly asked her when they were alone.
“His, I hope,” Musichetta responded wryly. “She has an unfortunate tendency to keep our whole house awake when she is...entertaining.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them -- why was she being so forward with this man she had just met?
Joly chuckled. “I have it on good authority that Combeferre does the same.”
“I do not want to know,” Musichetta said, rising to her feet. “But I should go, Monsieur Joly. It is late and I should go find my own bed.”
Joly rose to stand in front of her. “I could help you with that,” he murmured. He was so close to her she could feel the warmth of his body: she desperately wanted him to kiss her, to let him take her home and spend the evening getting to know each other’s bodies as well as they had been getting to know each other’s minds.
But she hesitated -- she had not come to Paris to be tethered to another, even one as kind and charming as this young man.
“That is not a good idea,” she said, taking a small step back from him. “I think you would find my quarters far too mean for your tastes. I have roommates you see -- mice. Lots of mice. I fear it would wreck your carefully crafted sleeping patterns,” she said lightly.
“I assure you, your rooms would be more than adequate,” Joly assured her, moving toward her again, reaching out and stroking her arm.
“No, I do not think that is a good idea,” Musichetta said, pulling away. “But it was lovely to meet you, Monsieur Joly,” she said, speaking the plain and absolute truth.
“May I see you again?” he called out to her as she departed.
She turned toward him and paused -- then nodded firmly before she disappeared into the night.
**
This was the beginning of Joly’s courtship of Musichetta: he started by sending her notes and small gifts, all with invitations to see him. Once in a while she relented, and would allow him to take her to dine in the evening, or out to the theatre, or for strolls in the park. At the end of their time together, he would escort her home -- and every single time he would ask if he could come in.
And every time he asked, she said no.
“The mice, you know,” she teased before she went inside, leaving him on her doorstep alone.
It was not that she did not want to let him in -- she certainly did, and fantasies about what they would do together occupied her mind as she worked -- but she was wary, not wanting to get attached to him, lest he turn out not to be the man he seemed to be.
It was a pattern that continued through the autumn, as the days grew shorter and the nights grew colder. Musichetta felt her resistance beginning to sag: after all, Joly was handsome and charming and intelligent and most, importantly, kind. And she had to admit to herself that she was lonely, with her first winter in the big city creeping up on her -- and she could think of no better company.
“Joly is one of the best men I have ever known,” Combeferre told her once.
“Me too,” she replied quietly.
But still, she hesitated.
**
Two weeks before Christmas, when Musichetta arrived home after a busy day at the dressmaker’s shop feeling as if her feet were going to fall off after a full day of standing -- after all, there were many Parisian women seeking new dresses for the holidays -- she discovered a basket in front of her door, with an awkwardly tied ribbon on its handle. A gift, she presumed from Joly, perhaps of some cheeses or a lovely piece of fabric.
But the basket appeared to be meowing.
She quickly picked up the basket and freed its occupant -- a tiny calico cat, who gazed up at her with wide green eyes. “Well, hello there,” she murmured, picking the cat up and holding it to her chest, stroking its soft fur. Back home she had always been one of the girls who adopted the various barn cats, sneaking food to them when she could and petting them when they would permit it. “Where did you come from?” she asked, putting her face to the cat’s and enjoying the sound of her purring -- the aching loneliness she had felt suddenly banished in the company of this warm little animal.
“From me,” came a familiar deep voice from behind her. “You keep saying I cannot come in because you have a problem with mice, and a cat, I’ve discovered, is likely the best corrective.”
Musichetta turned to face Joly, who was gazing at her with beseeching eyes, wondering if his gift worked. He looked so pleading she could not help but to smile at him benevolently.
And her defenses fell at last.
“You are probably correct, Monsieur Joly,” she said slowly. “But as a man of science, you realize we must test this theory somehow, should we not?”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Joly asked, moving even closer to her.
“Well, if your little gift here is indeed a corrective, it will take her time to do her work, will it not?” Musichetta teased, sauntering up to Joly and reaching up to stroke his cheek. “So we will need to pass the time somehow while she learns her way around.”
“Definitely,” Joly murmured, wrapping his arms around Musichetta’s waist -- only to recoil when the cat cried out indignantly from being squeezed.
Musichetta laughed -- and stood on her tiptoes and finally kissed him, a kiss sweeter than either of them could have imagined.
And this time she allowed Joly and his many gifts to come inside.