Creme de Menthe, Vanilla, and Rum




"What, the fair Ophelia?" he murmurs in shock, and runs a hand forcefully through his hair, collecting a large bit of rosemary. Ophelia... for Ophelia... fair Ophelia... He crushes the rosemary, smashing the leaves and purple flowers, and bathes his hands, fingers and knuckles, in the strong-scented juice. Of course, she isn't gone. That's as mad as he is. She isn't dead, but remembrance just the same. Just to be sure? Just the same. He stares at his hands, wet with rosemary, and with strands of golden hair beneath his nails. Ophelia.

In the distance, he can hear his mother speaking, sorrowfully. Something about sweet and farewell, and... (My wife? She should have been my wife...?) and graves? Strew'd graves? His eyes widen further. They're not strewing Ophelia's--- They're - Ophelia's -- Oh, God. God's blood.

He raises his head, and looks up. And there's Laertes, the silly fool. Him too? He's here...? --No, there's a good reason for that. Laertes is her brother. But this is confusing. And Laertes is talking. It sounds like a challenge.

"Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, till of this flat a mountain you have made t o'retop of Pelion, or the skyish head of blue Olympus."

Fool. Olympus isn't blue. Expect it's gold, or something. It does sound like a challenge, at any rate, and he advances towards fool Laertes.

"Pontmercy..." Christophe-Marie puts a hand on Marius' shoulder. Marius shakes away, furiously, his soft brown eyes struggling to come to blaze.

"Don't do that!" The boy looks despairing, his face anguished, standing on that cobblestoned street, six houses from 54 Rue Plumet. His shirttails are coming out of his breeches from running too hard, and the buttons on his waistcoat are slipping out of their fastenings. "Enjolras!"

"Pontmercy, what on earth is wrong?"

Marius chokes. "Enjolras! Ursula... I love her."

"I know you love that girl, man. You spend enough time dreaming on her. I don't see why that's a difficulty, except for me when you aren't paying attention."

The boy's hand is incredibly weak as it comes across his face. He barely feels any pain from the fingers trying to leave an imprint on his cheeks.

"Don't you see?! God, I love her! And you spend every day with her, after pretending to all of us that you're too good for any woman!"

"Pontmercy!"

"What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand'ring stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet, the Dane!" He presents his own challenge, and names himself. He doesn't do that often, and he's trying to prove that he isn't completely mad. Not when something so precious is at stake.

Laertes lunges at him, angrily. "The devil take thy soul!"

(He's already got it...)

He doesn't move as Laertes' hands fasten 'round his neck, pressing. He only closes his eyes, drawing in his breath with dignity. The boy is so very helpless. This barely even hurts, right now. --No. Tight.

"Thou prayest not well," he says, gasping a little, "I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat, for, though I am not splenitive and rash, yet I have something in me dangerous, which let thy wiseness fear." His blue eyes blaze like Laertes' never could. "Hold off thy hand!" He flips Laertes over on his back, easily, leaning on his chest.

"Pluck them asunder!"

Combeferre catches Marius' shoulder.

The Queen calls out to him, but he ignores her, infuriated by Laertes.

"Good my lord, be quiet."

"Good my lord, be quiet." Grantaire seeps his way over Christophe's shoulder, curling his arm over, pulling. And Christophe's Horatio parts him from his foe.

"God damn it, Pontmercy! The girl at the iron gates is called Cosette! We read Hamlet together!"

Courfeyrac giggles helplessly. "He never stops that idiotic play. Well, we are a company met. Enjolras is Hamlet; Marius - you're Laertes; Combeferre, you must be Claudius, for you protect Laertes. And I'm Gertrude. I chose my role long ago. Wine-cask, thou'rt Horatio, for you instead protect Hamlet." He grins and ducks over to Combeferre. "Well met, husband. I'm sorry you'll die so dishonourably."

"Courfeyrac," Christophe mutters through gritted teeth, "get out of here. Get out of here now. We have matters to settle."

"Why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids will no longer wag!" he insists, aggravated by Horatio's refusal to let him go.

His mother wishes to know upon what theme, and he frowns in disbelief.

"I lov'd Ophelia! Forty thousands brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?"

"Marius... You've a rival. You're the only who loves Ursula, and Enjolras is the only who loves Cosette, but Ophelia is beloved by you both." This comes from Grantaire, calling out from behind Christophe. "You'd best get used to it, if you're playing Laertes! That's how it goes!"

"Grantaire, you go with Courfeyrac, and get your hands off me."

"Oh, he is mad, Laertes," cries Courfeyrac.

"Oh, he is mad, Laertes," advises the King.

"No, that's not my line! Combeferre!"

"Courfeyrac, will you please leave? Enjolras has commanded; I ask."

"Oh, that's no use! For love of God, forbear him!"

"For love of God, forbear him," cries the Queen hopelessly.

"'Swounds, show me what thou't do!" he demands of Laertes. "Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile? I'll do't! Dost come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I; Millions of acres on us, till our ground, singeing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart!" See if you quote mythology at me, boy. "Nay, an' thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou."

And he will, too. Damn child.

"This is mere madness," the Queen intervenes, "and thus a while the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, when that her golden couplets are disclos'd, his silence will sit drooping."

Marius stands three feet from Christophe-Marie. Combeferre keeps him gently back, firmly holding his white-clothed wrists from behind. Grantaire has his arms around Christophe, also from behind, resting his cheek against Christophe's back, in a moment of weakness, forgetting that his only excuse for this close proximity in the first place should be Marius' protection. Courfeyrac stands between the four of them, smiling amiably, quoting at them all, oblivious to Christophe's fury and Marius' meaningless anguish.

Finally, Christophe rips away from Grantaire, turning from them, striding down the street in the opposite direction. His walk speaks of disgust, of anger, and also of lost, thwarted love. Grantaire runs after him, half-trotting, unsteadily as though he'd been at sea and is regaining his land legs; not a drunken unsteadiness, but an unused one.

"Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus? I lov'd you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do as he may, the cat will mew and the dog will have his day." With a pronounced calmness, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

"I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him," the King entreats, and Horatio obeys, following the Prince as he leaves the graveyard.

Combeferre kneels before Marius, whispering to him kindly, and at last stands. He sets an arm comfortingly about the boy, and begins to lead him away.

Courfeyrac stands by himself, then. He sits in the middle of the street, and looks up at the sky. "The play will end soon, won't it? I shan't be allowed to play Fool any longer. I shall have to play the Queen and place heart in my role. That's how it goes..."

He looks over as a girl's voice questions, "Monsieur, are you all right?"

"Cosette, come away," says the Polonius beside her.

Courfeyrac knows. And he smirks to himself. "Ophelia!" he gloats.

Cosette's eyes widen.


Chapter Eight.
Back to Chapter Six.