Cloves and Red Wine Vinegar, and Garlic



He lies on his back in his bed, tossing the foil lightly from hand to hand. His fingers slip easily into place on the grip, curling around the shape of the thing, settling into their place. His forefinger is pressed against the soft leather on the inside of the guard, and the tip of his thumb touches there as well. The guard itself is spotless, saving that there are scratches along it, where other weapons caught him. He watches his reflection, and suddenly realises there are fingermarks just above his left temple. He frowns, and polishes them off with his cravat, half-untying it.

The foil is a fine weapon, although it is blunted, a practice blade. His real foil stands in a corner, wrapped up in oiled cloth to keep it from rusting. That is a better blade, finely made, better kept than this one, and some day he will fight with it. Not yet, however.

He extends fully, holding up the tip, making a perfect line of his arm and the foil, making them one. This is something his instructor insists on: becoming part of the weapon. He attempts to touch the ceiling of his small room, stretching his arm as far as he can. When that proves not enough, he lifts his rib cage, forcing his body to rise, and triumphantly he hears the soft clink of the tip against the plaster.

He allows his blade to fall, and rests it along his chest, the edge of the guard at his ear, one hand at his throat to touch the cold metal, and the other crossed with it over his heart. He closes his eyes, and smiles dreamily. This is the weapon he will use when he fights Laertes.

He starts, suddenly, and sits up, hearing a knock at the door.

"Come in."

It's Courfeyrac. He might have known. The brown-haired boy enters cheerfully, shutting the door behind himself, dropping to the floor beside Christophe-Marie's bed.

"Bonjour!"

Christophe is thoughtful a moment, and does not answer. The ease with which Courfeyrac completes that action, leaning against the side of the bed, crossing his long legs, seems practiced, as though he'd been there many times before, sitting in the same spot. Which he certainly hasn't.

"Bonjour..."

Martin beams at Enjolras, feeling cheeky. "I saw a perfect Ophelia for you today. I was walking in the Luxembourg. She had lovely hair, curls of ebony, black as the unfathomable night," --He relents-- "well, perhaps lighter than all that. Dark brown, anyhow. Brunette. And she had brown eyes, as well. Deep ones, fit to fall into and so on. And there was even a jealous Polonius walking with her; an old man who appeared her father. Gave me an evil look as I went by, and all I did was wish her good day and smile."

"I'm sure. Polonius had some good sense, you realise of course, Courfeyrac."

"Oh, of course, of course he did! But he was still a suspicious bastard." Martin's tone is far happier than it has any right to be. "But I saw this girl, and I thought of you, and how fine an Ophelia she'd make for you. You'd have been lovely together."

"We have Ophelia. She's fair," Christophe adds pointedly.

"I suppose..." Martin sighs, and reaches up to stroke the blade of the foil, resting beside its master. "You're too difficult. I put forward an honest idea, and you throw it aside without considering it."

"I didn't need to consider it. The director has already cast Ophelia. Her name is Delphine Foręt."

Martin clicks his tongue. "Faugh. It sounds low-class. I prefer my Ophelia without having ever seen yours."

Christophe feels a wave of exasperation. "Yes, thank you, m'sieur de Courfeyrac."

"Ha! You've sunk to my level! You're calling names! You're despicable!"

"Courfeyrac..." The man is so childish sometimes. It's hardly believable no one's challenged him to a duel and blown out his brains yet. Although it's true that he's so completely idiotic no one would hurt him, in the way that an eccentric is considered harmless, he's certainly provocative and annoying. And then, too, he can be disgustingly disarming at times.

Martin smiles. "Of course. I shall be very good now and be silent." He knows Enjolras' opinion of him, and it's rather hurtful, but the best way to avoid being hurt by anything is to make everything into a joke. The world is lying around waiting to be teased.

"Did you come here for no reason except that you wanted to make a nuisance of yourself?"

"Oh, I came to tell you of Ophelia. She is mad, my lord. But that's all one. Have you a speech you write? Have you papers? My lord, I daresay thou'rt in a quandary. On the morrow's our next meet--"

"Mm-hmm. I know."

"And yet thou hast no word to spread. Does it come to you, like manna from heaven, what you say? Have you but to stand and speak, and know that we will listen? Are the words brought to you as you face us?"

"No. My speeches are all in a locked drawer in my desk, which is why you can't find them upon it."

"Of course. Once again, of course. He is too clever."

"He is sensible. It wouldn't do to leave revolutionary documents lying about."

"Ah! C'est vrai!"

"Courfeyrac." He comes to his feet in one movement, rising lithely, like a cat, and pulls the addressed up as he does so, so that they are facing one another standing. "Courfeyrac, I appreciate that you are loquacious, but this isn't the time. You may stay here, you may leave me alone, or you may follow me, as you will, but you will do it silently. And in the meantime, I have a fencing lesson."

"Oh, lovely!" Martin is undaunted despite the angry Enjolras confronting him. "I'll come along, shall I?"

Christophe-Marie gives him a look that plainly states that it's about time he shut his mouth.

"But quietly..."

"Good." The golden-haired boy thrusts the all-too-familiar script-book at Courfeyrac. "You can help me rehearse on the way there."

"Oh, not again. Enjolras, I appreciate that you are a fine actor, but don't you think it's a little much to spend every waking moment on this damn play?"

"But you wouldn't object if I spent every waking moment on the Revolution. Both are important to me, and both will take time and preparation, Courfeyrac. Yet I believe I told you that you were to be silent. Did I not?"

"You did." Martin knows what 'silent' means. "Which act?"

"Four, scene two."

"Very good, my lord. 'Enter Hamlet'…"


Chapter Four.
Back to Chapter Two.