Cold Turkey and Wheat Bread


He sits alone in the cafe, long after the others have left, staring at a candle on his table. The tall, white pillar burns slowly, a golden flame, flickering a little from a draft somewhere, though he couldn't tell where exactly. A book is open at his elbow, an inkwell open at his hand resting upon the table, and sheets of parchment neatly stacked before him. A quill rests loosely in the embrace of the hand reclining near the inkwell, and a few drops of black have gathered precariously at its tip. His head is propped in his other hand, the fingers sprawling over his cheek, and the tip of one touching the bottom rim of his eye. His hair is coming down, still half-hooked in the leather strips tying it back, with long trails hanging past his ears and tips straying under his collar. His eyes are closed, though he is not asleep, and overlong lashes flutter slightly when he tries to become truly awake. Every so often, he chokes back a yawn, and sometimes his eyes water a little, smarting from the holding back of sleep so long.

The parchment has the beginning few words of a speech upon it, already inspiration just because he wrote them, done in his handwriting of neat, precise characters, and yet the ink is dry. Along the side of the page, very small, is the word "Ophelia".

If Prouvaire saw the man now, he would dare to murmur "lovesick", and Joly would surely fret over him. Christophe-Marie's expression is a hopeless confusion, with a hint of unsure longing; an expression meant more for Pontmercy than for Enjolras.

Courfeyrac would laugh.

As it is, he sits alone, sometimes hearing a few scattered noises in the streets, and sometimes startling ever so slightly when a oddly midnight fiacre clatters by. By early morning, he is tired enough that he doesn't hear the door open, or see Grantaire slip inside.

Rodolphe freezes, and stares disbelievingly at the almost-slumbering angel, gilded with pale sunlight and perfectly still, making himself a thing of marble, or else a heavenly ghost. The sot edges forward, expecting Enjolras to move at any moment, and feels quite surprised when he doesn't.

A few steps away, and Rodolphe catches the back of a chair, drawing himself along with it, falling silently into it, and resting his arms on the tabletop. He considers it his bounden duty to look after his demi-god when he's thus unprotected.

A moment later, Christophe acknowledges the other presence.

"Grantaire?" It would be. If it's not Courfeyrac, it's the bloody drunkard.

"Oui, Grantaire. Are you all right?"

"Me? Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?"

"You're pale. And you're also sleeping in this cafe, which seems to be a dreadful thing of no repute, as you always go stiff when I find you here at night, something which has now happened three times."

"Go away," he mutters wearily, turning the quill between two fingers. He accidentally draws the nib up a third finger, staining it with an excess of black ink.

"Just go away? Harsh. Abrupt. Don't send Horatio away, lord Hamlet."

"Why shouldn't I? Don't call me lord Hamlet."

"Of course, only Courfeyrac may do that and live."

"I don't have time for this; I have things to write; talk sense, or leave me be."

"Only tell me what's wrong."

"Damn it, Grantaire, how should I know what's wrong?" Christophe puts his head in both hands, striping one cheek in wet ink without noticing. Rodolphe sighs, and reaches out with his forefinger to brush it away, then realises the mistake in that, and with a small effort, remains still.

"Perhaps you shouldn't. God knows whatever's wrong you shouldn't confide in me. You oughtn't really tell me anything, or allow me to sit here. Rather close, isn't it, the winecask in proximity too near to Apollo for decency."

"I don't have time for this, either..."

"I'm your bloody Horatio, or I was, once. Right now, let me make you a promise. Right now, I shan't turn a thing back on you you say."

"That's not the difficulty. The difficulty is that I despise you," Christophe explains patiently. "I wouldn't tell you my mother's name. If I was worried about your ridiculing me, I should have sought you out and tried to reason with you ages ago, when you first began it." He's rather too tired to care what he says at this point, and it's only Grantaire who'll hear, anyway. "I dislike you. You're disgusting. I don't understand why a man should waste himself the way you do, or why you revel in the absolute defilement you've done to yourself. That's why I don't care to speak with you, or listen to you. You don't make any sense, and you're irritating--"

Rodolphe, hurting from and sick of the explanation, catches Enjolras by both wrists, taking an hardly perceptible care not to make the action rough, and demands, "What the hell is bothering you, m'sieur?!"

Shaken, Christophe lowers his eyes and whispers with utmost dignity, "There's a woman..."

"Oh, God!" Rodolphe bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles. "It would be!"

The golden-haired angel simply stares, astounded by Grantaire and by himself.


Chapter Seven.
Back to Chapter Five.