"Grapes and Pears"


Christophe-Marie returns to the cafe on the following morning. Hamlet is ragged; Hamlet is falling to bits; and someone may patch a coat with Hamlet, if he doesn't find a thread. Rodolphe sits in the back room at the back table as he does every day, drinking, and Christophe accosts Courfeyrac without looking at him. He looks tired today, more tired than previous, and his golden hair is rather mussed. Still, as Rodolphe said, he is an Enjolras, and he retains his dignity while making his request.

"Courfeyrac, I want you to help me with my lines. The play is in two weeks."

Courfeyrac smiles, lazily, and leans back in his chair. "Two weeks? That's frightful soon, lord Hamlet, and you're not ready yet?"

"I should never presume to be ready with anything. Being ready is a form of perfection, and I doubt I have accomplished that."

"Gracious! No, you haven't, I expect. Well, where do you want me to read from?"

Christophe-Marie holds the book out wearily, open at Act III Scene II. "There. From there."

"Enjolras, may I seek to dissuade you? You look dreadful. I think, rather than at memorising, the day was better spent in bed for you." For once, Courfeyrac looks rather serious, holding the script-book in one hand and making a gesture with it. "You don't seem ill, but all the same..."

"No. Good God, Courfeyrac, I'm fine. But I have a play in two weeks, and I requested your help. If you do not wish to give it, I shall seek it elsewhere." Christophe is sharp; he is cold and he speaks with the slight quickness of irritation. A fine actor, Rodolphe reflects. He suspects Enjolras is also quite dead on his feet.

"Seek it elsewhere, then. It's all the same to me. I'm here for everyone's amusement, and if you're not amused, then I'm not doing my job, now, am I? Take your play, sir, and there's an end." Courfeyrac holds the book back out, expression inquiring.

Christophe takes it, slowly, and turns, leaving the cafe. Such a waste of time. Such an utter waste. Because that would barely have made a scene in a decent play, unless something came of it, and nothing would. He walked into the cafe, he spoke shortly, and he left again, and it was all meaningless. He doesn't intend to pay heed to what Courfeyrac said, and therefore nothing occurred but a brief pass of words.

Of course he wasn't ill. And what did Courfeyrac mean, saying so? He's fine, only a little tired, because after Grantaire kissed him, he went home and couldn't sleep. Only that. He'd told Grantaire no (perfectly readily!) and come home. It had only been a matter of not being able to sleep. Sometimes he thinks too much...

Christophe startles as Grantaire comes up behind him, touching his shoulder lightly.

"Enjolras. Slow down. God, you walk a pace when you're angry."

"Go away."

"No."

"Go away."

"Enjolras. You should listen. You should listen to someone besides yourself."

"If by 'someone' you mean yourself or Courfeyrac, I have no desire to. There's nothing to hear."

"And that," Rodolphe says with a kind of furious satisfaction, "is exactly what I mean. Tell yourself that enough times and you'll believe it, especially as you don't listen to anyone else's opinion. Courfeyrac's a good man, if a bit of an ass. A good man! Do you remember when I told you about clichés? You're only deceiving yourself. Isn't that a nice cliché? But it's true. Slow down!" Everything Rodolphe has just said was mixed in with panting, from the little run-skip dance it takes to stay just alongside of Christophe.

"Why should I? I don't want to hear what you have to say!"

"See if that stops me--"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Christophe hisses, finally halting.

"Because you can't take care of yourself. And also, you need a Horatio. Horatio's in that scene you wanted Courfeyrac to read with you. I can read."

"Supposing, just supposing, Grantaire, I don't want you to read it?"

"Then you're in a lovely spot, because I want to, and you don't want me to, and we can both be utterly pig-headed, so we'll have a nice stalemate, shall we?"

Christophe-Marie sighs in exasperation, and turns away. "Only for an hour, and then I swear to God I'm turning you out."

"You do that," Rodolphe tells him complacently.

"And you had best go when I say. You know this is because I need to rehearse?"

Rodolphe pauses a moment, looking at him. "Yes. Yes, I think I do. Not because I'm insistent; that would never move you to anything. Because you need to rehearse. I believe it."

"Thank you."

"Quite so. May I come see this play when you've finished with it?"

"If you can afford to get in," Christophe says dubiously, with a clear air of not expecting it to be so.

"I'll wager I can. Oughtn't be too terribly difficult. What's Horatio like, Enjolras?"

"He's short, and quite dark."

"Hm. I expect he's quite vile."

Christophe gives him a look of pure bemusement. "You sound just like Courfeyrac. We had this same discussion over Ophelia."

"Heaven forefend. Is she short and quite dark, too, then?"

"She's fair," Christophe mutters.

"Quite so, quite so. Here; may I have that book?" Christophe gives the script-book to him, and Rodolphe flips through it, carefully. "There we are. A good act, Act III. You praise your Horatio in this Act, don't you? Yes, you do. How nice."

Christophe-Marie ignores him, holding the door of his room open, as they have reached it.

"In."

Rodolphe grins, and scampers in, sitting on the floor with the book in his hands. Christophe shuts the door, and crossing the room, sits on the bed.

"'Act III, Scene II," Rodolphe announces, "A hall in the castle. Enter Hamlet and three of the players'."

"'Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue'," Christophe begins.

Exactly an hour later, he stops abruptly, and gestures at the door with a pen picked deftly off his bedside table. "Leave, please."

Rodolphe looks at him innocently. "And yet, my lord, we were in the middle of Scene III."

"I said an hour. I meant it. Do not think that because I am tired I will allow you to take advantage of it."

"You intend, you mean, that nothing shall disturb your lovely, Enjolraic orders. An Enjolras you are, and an Enjolras never allows anything to make him seem weak. Well, that's no matter. I'll go."

"Good."

Rodolphe laughs, and stands beside Christophe for a moment. "I hate you, too," he says, and kisses Christophe's cheek. Then he moves, with a great air of congeniality, to the door.

"I never said I hated you," Christophe-Marie complains, but already Rodolphe is gone.


Chapter Thirteen.
Back to Chapter Eleven.