Work Text:
Grantaire was shaken out of his afternoon’s engraving work by Jehan abusing his copy of Grantaire’s room keys, opening the door so abruptly that the burin nearly went skidding over the copperplate and the last hour of his life.
“We are returning to greatness,” Jehan announced. “The machine has killed art. We must lift craft above all – return to the personal. The Middle Ages must be our model.”
“I am changing my locks,” Grantaire said. “Greatness knocks too often and too loudly upon craft.”
“I have just bought a printing press this morning and engaged a man to teach me its operation. The press is modelled after Pigouchet’s; the paper is a formulation of Henri Estienne’s and the typeface is modelled after that of Simon de Colines. The first project must be the Song of Roland - it is our national epic. You will illustrate it with woodcuts made from the trees of the beastly forest of Gévaudan, now Lozère.”
Grantaire poured himself some brandy and waited for the joke.
“We need to remove ourselves from modernity and return to the medieval air. We will be composing the work in Iceland.”
There it was.
***
“And you are quite certain that this position cannot be illustrated?” Marius said, sotto voce. “I have translated my scenario into the German.”
“I am speaking to you not merely as an experienced illustrator, but as an experienced man, young Pontmercy,” Grantaire replied. “If your Marquis de Tapenade-”
“D’Estrade.”
“Marquis d’Estrade, my apologies. If the marquis is holding up his lady friend with her tender flower exposed, legs somehow spread upon the balcony, I worry that part the first, she will fall into the garden and part the second, only shallow penetration will be achieved. There are also artistic considerations to take in mind. From the front, the lady will resemble a starfish and we will see entirely too much of the marquis. The backside of the composition would be entirely uninteresting, at least to any man who admires a woman’s breasts.”
“Courfeyrac insisted upon its accuracy. He said something about a family secret and offered instruction, at which point I felt a little faint and his dog urinated on my boots. I think they still smell, but they are my only pair.” Marius hung his head. “I hear the market for gentlemen’s literature in Germany is insatiable. Are you certain this is unworkable? I’m not sure I have the vocabulary for revision.”
Grantaire gave up with a groan and reached for his sketchbook. “I’ll need you to help me with the anatomy.”
***
Carl, disturbed, wanted to escape Courfeyrac’s affections. He farted.
“Control your knee, or I am sticking the Clarinette de Courfeyrac up either your dog’s arse, or your own,” Grantaire said.
Courfeyrac laid one gloved hand on his knee and steadied himself. “I feel my youth fading; immortalize me as I was when I first sat down, not as I have become. Where are the Courfeyracs of yesteryear? Two hours ago, and also in Carpentras, waiting for prints. Do not neglect the keywork of the clarinet, or the folds of Carl. Why are you sketching on such a large sheet of paper? This needs to be sized for cameos.”
Grantaire reminded himself that Courfeyrac had paid in advance, and that he had already spent the money.
“Are you saying that you want a full body portrait, complete with a musical instrument and a lady’s lapdog, sized for a cameo?”
“Yes, I thought it would be a nice change from the usual busts. Their scale is so limited.”
***
“Rather, you should pay me for the honour,” Bahorel replied, already undoing the knot of his cravat. “Nevertheless, I am generous and prepared to pay you with excellent brie and passable wine. I even grant you permission to put your engraving of me in your portfolio, as an aid in seeking future employment.”
“I don’t work pro bono.” Grantaire hoped that speaking lawyer would get through to Bahorel. Instead, he continued to disrobe.
“I have a large circle of friends, as you understand. The holidays are a drain upon my resources. I must economize my gifts and capitalize upon my social currency.”
Bahorel flopped naked onto the récamier. He leaned on his elbow and held a cushion in front of his groin.
“Voilà – my Christmas card,” Bahorel said.
Grantaire violently cleared his throat.
“I am not going to the trouble of engraving your moustache.”
Bahorel thoughtfully stroked the object of contention. “The moustache is non-negotiable.”
***
“There are some sixty thousand bees in each hive,” Combeferre said, his voice muffled by the headgear. He held out his hands, encapsulating the buzzing swarm. “Although half of them are now gathering honey in the fields.”
Grantaire wondered how fast he could run. “What fine political organization, although it is a shame about their monarchy. I’m sure their king is an excellent fellow, given to mildness and perhaps even taking a stroll in the garden with his umbrella.”
Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder. “Your understanding of bees is outdated. What you behold is a society of women; an egalitarian one, at that. They are the embodiment of the ideas of Saint-Simon, for each member works to the benefit of another. These ladies possess no property but that which is in common, and keep all their goods in kind. Now do you see why I wish to produce an illustrated monograph?”
“I see a society of six-legged Sapphists who wish to penetrate me and I demand hazard pay for observing them at their communism. Time is money, but I suppose honey does not have a king.”
***
“Thank you,” Gros said. “I saw you on my way to a gambling den, and thought it might be better to spend some of my night checking in on you instead. How are you?”
“Well enough,” Grantaire replied, helping Gros with his coat. “And you?”
Gros gave him a tight-lipped smile and set his hat on one of the presses. “Hoping you’ll share your wine.”
Grantaire fetched another glass, pouring out an ample serving for his teacher. “The vintage is horrible. I would not set it before Pantagruel unless he asked first. Make no effort to taste it – you will only regret it.”
“I am sure neither of us will mind,” Gros said, taking a long sip. “What’s keeping you here so late?”
“I’ve been foolish enough to take commissions from friends. Speaking of, I need to take out a plate.”
Grantaire rushed back to the acid bath to take out the plate so he could rinse it and wipe off what was left of the ground. He watched Gros looking through the plates Grantaire had left out, frowning as he held them up to a lamp.
“You need to burnish this one – your lines are too fat around the dog,” Gros said. “Also, the dandy’s knee looks cramped.”
“He would not sit still. And he was very insistent on the fatness of the dog.”
“People are difficult subjects, even when they dislike you; friends are still harder. I expect they are all underpaying you?”
“One of them is paying me in wine and cheese,” Grantaire said. He finished drying off the plate, already seeing where the bee’s head would prove hard to print. “Another one promised me a cut of future profits and offered me some of his dessert. The others paid me fairly, but exposed me to pests. I may have to go to Iceland.”
“Never work with children or animals; do accept offers to travel, but only to temperate places. Don’t let friends take you on campaign, you’ll only end up shot at and with a teaching position at the École des Beaux Arts. Soldiers have no appreciation for art and will tell the Pope how to sit.” Gros picked up Grantaire’s sketchbook from where he’d left it in his bag. “May I look?”
“If you like.”
The last time Gros had seen his sketchbook, it had been after a trip to the Prado in Spain, before Grantaire had fallen into the company of his friends. His subject matter had since turned mundane. Grantaire abandoned his plates to join Gros, remembering to refill both their wine glasses while he worried his pride would slip out and hide under the floorboards.
“Your still lifes are morbid,” Gros said, pointing to the flattened corpse of a bird on the street. Cats had picked out most of its organs, before some boys chased them away and made the body into a toy.
“Isn’t impermanence rather the point?”
“It never appealed to you very much. This young man scowls too often; I can see why you like to draw him.” Gros stopped on a sketch of Jehan in bed, one hand curled under the pillow and the sheets tangled in his legs.
Grantaire waited for Gros to ask.
“He looks a bit like a Boucher when he sleeps. You kept your lines loose here - very good,” Gros said. He turned the pages more slowly now that Enjolras had become more common. “Ah, the young man with the disdainful lip. He is your favourite subject.”
“I cannot capture his face,” Grantaire replied.
“Faces are tricky. But he brings out the best in your art. There’s a freshness to his portraits, though they’re mostly from memory. He makes you try - you should ask him to model for you.”
If Grantaire ever asked, he was certain Enjolras would incline his head and say, “Why?” Enjolras had no time for sentiment; it was in the cast of his eyes.
“We are not close enough friends,” Grantaire said. There was a deeper truth in that than in his sketches of strangers and decay. He had friends enough who smiled on every page, but he kept returning to Enjolras and the way his face always looked a little sad in repose.
It was not something he’d wanted Gros to know. Gros closed the sketchbook and clasped him by the shoulder. “It does no good to dwell on such things, my boy. Close up the shop and come with me to the Palais-Royal. Old Sardanapalus had the right of it when he said ‘eat, drink, and make love, as other human things are not worth this,’” he said, and he snapped his fingers, closing the quote.