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Courfeyrac was still in bed when Marius returned to the Rue de la Verrerie that afternoon. He’d awoken early, planned for breakfast with whatever willing party might accompany him; however, upon receiving a letter addressed to “Monsieur de Courfeyrac” that morning, had climbed back into bed, and had been reading the letter ever since. The letter was from his father, and carried two pieces of unfortunate information: first, that Monsieur de Courfeyrac, the elder, had by some means located Courfeyrac’s new lodgings, and therefore knew all about Courfeyrac’s various “reprehensible activities” in Paris; and, secondly, that Courfeyrac’s grandfather, who’d evidently been ill for many months, had passed away. The letter made it clear that Courfeyrac was not invited to the funeral, and was not included in the will.
Courfeyrac was on his fifth reading of the letter when Marius stumbled into the room, rubbing at his eyes, with grass in his hair.
“Good day, Courfeyrac,” Marius yawned, dropping to the mattress beside Courfeyrac’s bed and blinking sleepily.
“Hmm,” Courfeyrac replied. He read the last sentence of the letter again. Your presence at his funeral is unnecessary, as no sum was bequeathed to you in his last will and testament. He eyed the elegant curves of his father’s handwriting, over and over, traced by the familiar hand that had inscribed To my dear son in over half the books Courfeyrac owned. An empty buzzing echoed in his head; his limbs felt heavy.
As a child, Courfeyrac had been close with his grandfather, spending many a summer roaming his large estate in the Midi, lounging for hours in the shade of immense trees, swimming in any number of cool lakes, always returning to his grandfather’s knee in the evenings for an installment of some elaborate tale that stretched the length of the season. Courfeyrac’s grandfather was a jovial man, and Courfeyrac held a great deal of affection for him (or, at least, for the memories of him). He wasn’t necessarily surprised to be cut from his grandfather’s will; he knowingly took that risk with his “republican tendencies,” as his father so eloquently put it. And it wasn’t about the money. Courfeyrac took no guilt in his pleasures, enjoyed the fact that he ate well and drank well, dressed well and loved well. He was prepared to fight so all men could have such comforts. Courfeyrac had money to support his lifestyle. He was in no need of his grandfather’s.
He knew all this well. Combeferre would be impressed with his logic, he was sure. Why, then, was there this knot in his chest, pulling tighter by the minute?
“Important correspondence?” Marius asked, now stretched out on the mattress, resting his chin on his folded hands.
“Just news from home.” Courfeyrac tore his eyes from the letter and folded it neatly into thirds, slipped it under his pillow. He was tempted to burrow back beneath his blankets, but resolved to rise and face the day. His wallowing would have no effect on the matter. “How about breakfast, mon ami? I desperately could do with a pot of coffee and a pastry.”
“I shall have to decline.” Marius rolled onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes. “I’m dreadfully tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Ah, a night on the town? In good company, I hope?”
“In the company of larks,” Marius murmured, “but not the Lark.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re saying.”
“No matter. I simply went for a walk and dozed off when I stopped to rest.”
“On the street?”
“In a field.”
“…my dear Pontmercy, you are the strangest roommate I’ve ever had.”
“Yes, well…” Marius blushed.
“Still, I would be especially grateful if you’d join me for breakfast.” Courfeyrac smiled, and tried not to sound too desperate, too pleading, when he said, “I could very much use the company.”
“Not today, Courfeyrac,” Marius said, and Courfeyrac struggled to keep his smile intact. “I must get at least a few hours of sleep before I start working on my translations. I’m horribly behind.” Marius rolled over with his back to Courfeyrac. “Besides, it’s past noon. You’ll have to be out of your nightshirt before then if you want a decent breakfast anywhere.”
And if you spent half as much time working as you did with your head in the clouds, Courfeyrac thought, but bit his tongue. He wasn’t one to start petty arguments because he was in a foul mood. Besides, Marius was oblivious with everyone; he shouldn’t take it personally.
“Best of luck with your endeavors, then. I’ll have to find myself another dining partner.”
Marius didn’t reply. He was already asleep.
Courfeyrac dressed in his newest coat, in order to cheer himself up, and took an omnibus to the clinic where Joly was doing his rounds. When he arrived, however, he found Joly in a rather frazzled state, his hair sticking up in all directions, his glasses askew, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Bossuet was hovering nearby, looking bemused.
“Oh, we’ve been swamped today,” Joly moaned. “With the cholera outbreak, it seems the whole of Saint-Michel has arrived at our doorstep. I’m afraid I won’t be able to break for lunch this afternoon. Just as well, I feel awful. I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to keep any food down.”
“I merely tagged along to convince Jolllly he hasn’t contracted any disease,” Bossuet said, “but rationale refuses to take wing. His ailes are no match for his ailments. His – ”
“Enough, Bossuet.”
“Right, Joly. Courfeyrac, I’ll join you for a meal.”
“Brilliant! There’s a new café on the Rue de Conde I’ve been meaning to try. Good wine, excellent bisque, so I’ve heard.” Courfeyrac could feel his morale lifting already. He was certain, with some warm food in his stomach, the day would take a turn for the better, that he would be back in good spirits in no time.
Halfway to the Rue de Conde, it began to rain.
Bossuet and Courfeyrac ducked under an awning to wait out the downpour, though they were already soaked through. “My apologies,” Bossuet said, chafing his hands together. “I’m afraid I’ve rubbed a bit of my luck off on you.”
“Think nothing of it.” Courfeyrac pulled his coat tighter around himself. “My day was bound to be miserable before you entered the narrative.”
“The Musain is near. Shall we dine there, instead? I could do with a little warmth as soon as possible.”
Courfeyrac winced. He’d wanted to avoid the Musain today. Lately, their secluded back room had been fraught with tension, an electricity that made the hairs on Courfeyrac’s arms stand on end. Enjolras’s speeches were turning particularly fiery, his calls to action becoming urgent, pushing them closer and closer to the inevitable. Courfeyrac had no doubt, when the time for revolution came, he would be on the barricade beside his friends. His beliefs were stalwart, his will iron. He had fears, though, and doubts, and in his weaker moments, he let those anxieties cloud his mind. He currently had no desire to taint Enjolras and their cause with his foggy worries. However, he was starting to feel chilled, and resigned himself to another day spent in their den of imminent rebellion, at the mercy of his chief.
Courfeyrac and Bossuet set out toward the Musian, Bossuet pulling his coat over his head to shield himself from the pelting rain, Courfeyrac deciding not to bother; he was already drenched, what would a few more drops hurt? The streets were near deserted in the rain. A few blocks away from shelter, though, Courfeyrac felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face a rather ragged looking man, his grey hair dripping into his face, his feet bare and tinted blue.
“May I help you, good sir?” Courfeyrac asked, already reaching in his pocket for a few sous to offer the man.
Suddenly, there was a knife at his throat.
“Hey, now,” Bossuet began, but the man pushed the blade closer to the skin of Courfeyrac’s neck.
“Don’t you move, or I’ll slit him open.”
“This,” Courfeyrac rasped, and swallowed, “is getting rather ridiculous.”
“Give me what you have.”
Courfeyrac raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Check my pockets. Everything I have is in there. You're welcome to it.”
The man’s eyes flickered wildly from Courfeyrac’s pockets back to his face. “Don’t want you getting the slip on me,” he said. “Give me the whole coat.”
“Take it.” Courfeyrac slipped his arms out of the coat, and the man scrambled to pick it up off the wet pavement, the knife still hovering around Courfeyrac’s chest. “It’s brand new, of course.”
“What else?” the man asked as he slid the coat over one arm, the other raising the knife back to Courfeyrac’s neck.
“He told you,” Bossuet said, “that’s all he has.”
“I think he’s lying.”
“Look, I’ve already given you – ”
In a sudden burst of movement Courfeyrac had trouble following, the man grabbed Courfeyrac’s arm and tugged him forward. Courfeyrac stumbled, tried to catch his balance without pressing himself closer to the man’s knife, and felt a fist connect solidly with his right eye. He skidded to the ground, his hands scraping against the cobblestones, the knees of his trousers tearing open. The man took off running.
Bossuet was at his side in a moment. “Oh, damn, the bastard moved so fast, I’m sorry, Courfeyrac, I didn’t realize…”
“My dear eagle,” Courfeyrac pushed himself to his elbow, “did you just punch me in the face?”
“I didn’t mean to, I’m – ”
“No, don’t apologize. Truly, my only serious injury is to my pride. Help me up?”
Bossuet lifted him from the ground, and helped him limp to the Musain. They hobbled into the back room, where Enjolras and Combeferre were already poured over a map, pointing and marking and debating in hushed tones. Grantaire was in his usual corner, already half a bottle in, and Feuilly and Bahorel were seated together, laughing heartily at some joke or anecdote.
“Greetings, mes amis,” Courfeyrac said, trying to force an ounce of cheer into his voice, more for his own sanity than for the benefit of his friends. All eyes turned to Courfeyrac, and the room fell silent.
“Christ, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said after a few moments of gaping. “You’ve been in some brawl.”
“No,” Courfeyrac said. “Just a small one.”
“We were mugged,” Bossuet said. “A few blocks away.”
“They took my new coat.” Courfeyrac meant for his complaint to be in jest, but he sounded, to his own ears, earnestly distraught.
“You’re soaked.” Combeferre was suddenly wrapping Courfeyrac in his own coat and pulling him further into the room, seating him at the table with Bahorel and Feuilly, prodding at his cheek. “And your face. There’s a shadow of a bruise there.”
“I hope you gave as good as you received,” Bahorel said.
“Erm,” Courfeyrac said, “You’ll have to refer to our unlucky eagle on that account.”
“Oh, hell, Courfeyrac, I’m so sorry!”
Bahorel tilted his head. “There’s a story here.”
“Yes. Perhaps for another day.” Courfeyrac lowered his head to the table, his temples pulsing. “Right now, I need wine, and loads of it.”
Feuilly poured him a glass, but before he could take a sip, Enjolras was behind him, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. “We could use your input on potential locations for our barricade. Combeferre and I are debating whether or not to use the Corinth as – ”
“Please,” Courfeyrac nearly begged, feeling the delicate thread of his mood beginning to fray. “Grant me a moment of peace? I’ve just been attacked in the rain. I have an empty stomach, a sober mind, and I’ve lost a considerable fortune today. I want no talk of our enlightenment until one of my baser needs is met.”
Enjolras bristled, but Combeferre asked, “What fortune have you lost?”
“Oh.” Courfeyrac hadn’t meant to let that slip. He straightened himself in his seat, tried to flatten his tone into something resembling nonchalance. “I received a letter from home about the death of my grandfather this morning, informing me that I’ve been cut from his will.”
Combeferre clasped Courfeyrac's other shoulder. “My condolences.”
“It’s no matter.”
“Was he ill?” Feuilly asked.
Courfeyrac shrugged. He honestly hadn’t known his grandfather was ill, and the fact that his father neglected to inform him sent a sudden shiver of anger through Courfeyrac. “You’d have to ask Monsieur de Courfeyrac about my grandfather’s wellbeing,” Courfeyrac nearly spat, “as I wasn’t privy to that information.”
Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged looks, and fell silent again. Courfeyrac sighed shakily, and brought the wine to his lips.
“Was he bourgeois?” Enjolras asked.
Courfeyrac’s fingers tightened around his glass. He took a large gulp of wine and set the cup on the table with a resonant thump. “Of course.”
“Then perhaps you’re better off. Though not of the lower class yourself, if you wish to resonate with the people, you should distance yourself from such gestures.”
The thin thread of Courfeyrac’s barely contained temper snapped.
“Yes. Thank you, Enjolras. As always, your great wisdom is appreciated,” Courfeyrac's words dripped with sarcasm. He pressed his palms to the table.
Combeferre cupped the back of his neck, squeezed gently. “Courfeyrac,” he said in a low voice, but Enjolras stepped forward again.
“I meant no offence,” Enjolras said, blinking in bewilderment. Courfeyrac was typically amused by their leader’s ignorance of social cues, but today, he was already trembling with barely controlled fury. His body was reeling, a tempest within him, alighting every nerve ending.
“No, of course not.” Courfeyrac laughed, a bitter, harsh sound. “Never.”
“Peace, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said, settling a large hand over Courfeyrac’s shaking one. “Perhaps your emotions have gotten the better of you today. We can soldier on without you. Take comfort in some good food, a warm bed, fine female company, and return as yourself in the morning.”
“As myself.” Courfeyrac pulled his hand from Bahorel’s.
“I didn’t mean it like – ”
“No,” Courfeyrac rose to his feet, pushed his chair back, didn’t miss Feuilly flinching at his jarring movements. “But you all do mean it, don’t you? Old Courfeyrac keeps you laughing, tells you jokes, feeds you, is always eager to share his bed and a glass of wine and a good tale. You have no use for his melancholy.”
“Courfeyrac, calm – ”
“He’ll be a good man on the front lines, too, Courfeyrac, but he’s a fickle creature.” Courfeyrac felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He was suddenly infuriated at his own weakness, felt his pitch rising, his fists clenching. He whirled to face Enjolras. “Lest he forget his participle. We must constantly remind him not to repent, to fall back on his bourgeois relations. What is family? Family is of no matter to the rebellion. Grandfathers are not grandfathers if they’re rich.”
“I never said – ”
“Don’t offend me, Enjolras. Don’t patronize me. I know you well enough to know what you don’t say. You believe I shouldn’t mourn the death of my vile monarchist grandfather. And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.” Courfeyrac shook his head, ran his hands through his hair, felt himself choking up, the knot in his chest pulled painfully taut. “I shouldn’t.”
The room fell into stifling silence, save for Courfeyrac’s harsh panting. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Bossuet looked somewhat frightened. Enjolras’s expression was still as stone. Combeferre’s eyes were soft, and tender. Only Grantaire’s gaze was not trained on Courfeyrac, due to his face currently being planted in his folded arms.
“Well, not to worry, my chief,” Courfeyrac said, his voice strained, near breaking. “I am your man through and through. Death to the bourgeois! Vive la France!” He sank into his chair with a gasp and buried his face in his hands.
“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre murmured, stroking a hand across Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “It's alright. Go home.”
Courfeyrac sobbed once, and obeyed.
Back in his room, Courfeyrac wrapped himself in blankets and hid his face in his pillow, trembled at the damp chill, though he was too exhausted to lift himself from the bed and light a fire. Shame sent shivers through him. He hadn’t meant to snap at his friends. He knew they meant him no harm, that has mood had been precariously close to plummeting all day, that his outburst was his fault as much as the rest. His rant had hit on the truth he’d been avoiding all day, since he’d opened the letter that morning.
He didn’t want to grieve for his grandfather. He wanted desperately to thumb his nose at his family, to reject them as they rejected him. He didn’t want to care. But a memory kept stirring within him, his grandfather’s cheerful voice, a warm hand on his head, a kiss to his cheek. My lovely summer child, he used to call Courfeyrac, due to his young, tanned skin, his boundless enthusiasm for outdoor adventures. You will always be my favorite.
He was such a fool. Such a pathetic fool.
Someone knocked at his door, and Courfeyrac wiped the tears from his face hurriedly, though he did not respond. He curled further into himself and thought, go away, go away.
“Courfeyrac? Are you home?” It was Jehan’s voice through the door, and a pang shot through Courfeyrac’s heart. He suddenly ached for Jehan’s gentle tones, the rhythmic cadence of his voice, his calm. Had Jehan been at the Musain that afternoon, Courfeyrac felt he might not have been so quick to erupt.
He dragged himself from the bed and opened the door, attempting to smile. “Good evening, Jehan,” he croaked.
“Oh.” Jehan blinked, his face and the tip of his nose flushed pink from the wind. “Courfeyrac, you don’t look well.”
Courfeyrac opened his mouth, was about to come up with a number of witty excuses for his poor appearance, but his shoulders slumped in defeat. He was too tired to lie. “My grandfather passed away,” Courfeyrac said. “Please come in.”
Jehan followed him inside, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “I, um, came to return the book you loaned me. It was riveting, Courfeyrac, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you lent it to me, and I wanted to discuss it with you this evening, but…oh, Courfeyrac, you do seem very sad.”
Jehan looked, suddenly, just as miserable as Courfeyrac felt, and that strangely made Courfeyrac feel a little better.
“We missed you today,” Courfeyrac said.
“I just couldn’t tear myself away from my reading. It was so wonderful, Courfeyrac. But I, um, I can see you’re not up to any sort of analysis tonight, so I’ll leave you to your rest.”
“Stay.” Courfeyrac swallowed. “Please. I’m not up to it, but stay anyway.”
Jehan nodded, and gave Courfeyrac a small, pleased smile. “Of course.”
Courfeyrac nearly burst into tears, he was so relieved. “Jehan, I’ve made an ass of myself.”
“Tell me,” Jehan said, and settled himself cross-legged on Courfeyrac’s bed, pulled Courfeyrac’s head to his lap, and started combing his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac told him the story, from the letter to Pontmercy’s breakfast refusal to Joly’s panicked decline to the rain and the robbery and the coat and Enjolras and his stupid, horrible tirade…
“It wasn’t stupid, or horrible,” Jehan said. He had fished something out of the pocket of his coat and was now tangling whatever it was in Courfeyrac’s hair. “Grief is one of our most natural states. We grieve because we are alive. To suppress it would be terrible. You musn’t suppress it, Courfeyrac, you simply musn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought. If you need to grieve – ”
“Hush, Jehan.” Courfeyrac felt himself smiling, a real, easy, bright smile, for the first time all day. “I’ve grieved enough for today, I think. But thank you.”
They remained quiet for a while, Jehan humming something under his breath, continuing to play with Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac closed his eyes and let the stillness wash over him, the peace, feeling his nerves calm, his anger abate, his sadness ebb away. His grief was still present, but dulled, softened around the edges, a stone he could carry rather than one that would crush him.
After a few minutes, Courfeyrac peeked one eye open. “Jehan, what are you putting in my hair?”
“Clovers!” Jehan showed Courfeyrac his handful of tiny, green plants. “I picked them this afternoon in the Luxembourg, while I was reading. They look lovely on you.”
Courfeyrac grinned.
There was another knock at the door.
“Come in!” Jehan replied cheerily for him. Enjolras and Combeferre entered, and Jehan’s gaze turned murderous.
“Courfeyrac doesn’t wish to speak to anyone right now,” Jehan said, shooting a fierce, affronted glare at Enjolras. “He’s grieving, as is his right, and doing a marvelous job of it without your help.”
Enjolras had the wherewithal to look abashed, and slightly afraid. Combeferre was barely suppressing a smirk. Courfeyrac felt a little joy burst in his chest.
“I came to apologize,” Enjolras said. “It seems my actions were out of line this afternoon. I should have had more…delicacy, while consoling you in regards to your grandfather’s death.”
“Consoling him?” Jehan sounded scandalized. “You told him – ”
“It’s alright, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, patting the poet on the knee. He tipped his head back to fix Enjolras with an upside-down smile. “All is forgiven.”
“Still, Combeferre informed me I lacked a certain amount of – ”
“Respect?”
“Empathy?”
“Perspective?”
“Observational skill?”
“Tact,” Combeferre chimed in, his voice tight with mirth.
“Indeed.” A blush colored Enjolras’s cheeks. “You’re…indispensible to our cause, Courfeyrac, you must know this. I would never think to take your contributions lightly, and I never meant to belittle the depth of your feelings for those you care about. Without that, we’d be a much colder collective. Without you, we’d…” Enjolras, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. He simply nodded, and said. “You’re indispensible. To me. To all of us.”
“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said seriously.
They all smiled at each other for a moment.
“Enough of that, then,” Combeferre said. “We shouldn’t inflate Courfeyrac’s ego much more. The room is crowded enough as it is.”
Courfeyrac’s stomach growled loudly in response. He groaned. “Oh, I haven’t eaten all day. One of you must share a meal with me, and soon, before I grow faint.”
Enjolras, in a final act of contrition, volunteered to procure their dinner (“Bisque!” Courfeyrac suggested). Combeferre picked a book from Courfeyrac’s shelf and offered to read aloud to them (“Oh don’t read us something dry, Combeferre, please,” Jehan begged. “Byron! I’m certain Courfeyrac has a copy, I lent it to him”). Jehan continued tangling clovers in Courfeyrac’s hair (“Did you know clovers have medicinal properties?” Combeferre interrupted Byron to remark. “It soothes spasms of the bronchi and reduces the symptoms of syphilis”).
Courfeyrac plucked an errant clover from the bed, and pressed it to his palm, for good luck.