Laigle de Meaux

Joly rubs his nose, thinking. "Everything about the running of this place is a bit mysterious. Bar arranges for all our needs, somehow; forests move, somehow. I'm not going to ignore that, but I accept that I don't understand it for now. Security, though- matters of civil governance-- that should be more transparent."
He gathers the kittens off Bahorel's arm as they change from fierce attack beasts to napping fluffballs. "There's this, that's different from home- we do know some of the security forces here. We can ask Teja how they're arranged; and maybe others of the staff, too. Even if they don't tell us what they know, what they do tell us would still be worth hearing."

From:

"I've asked, now and then." He looks down into his cup of wine, and then through the glass. "I suspect that you could ask five different Security officers what their responsibilities are and what their jurisdiction, and get five different answers. Protecting the place in case of--walking corpses or demon rabbits or mountain monsters--seems to be tolerably obvious, but the rest of it seems a bit vague. Even the walking corpses bit, when it comes to ordinary amiable walking corpses like us. --Sorry."

Edited Date: 2014-11-20 05:28 pm (UTC)

From:

Free of kittens, Bahorel makes his own attack on the meat-and-cheese tray. There's a few things there he doesn't recognize, so he goes for them first. "If none of them agrees on what they're supposed to be doing, it might explain the security in those cells. Hunt couldn't wait to drive the rest of you out, but after that-- I tell you, it would have taken an honest man a month's wages to buy a prisoner the kind of security we had last night."

From:

Enjolras nods.

"It may explain the trouble, too. The rules here are sensible but very broad. The population is large for a café, small for a town, extremely varied, and often transient. The government, if one can call it that, consists of a couple of proprietors and a small Security force. It may be that the parameters and limits of their authority are as vague to them as to us, or left largely to individual discretion."

"In that case, the issue is to ensure that clear limits of behavior are delineated and enforced, or to ensure that only those of steady moral character are given authority, or both. I would advocate both. A broad mandate without checks is a perilous system, no matter the men given responsibility by it."

They all know this; they all agree on it. The flaws of such a system have been readily illustrated in the France of their own day.

From:

"Café or town? That's one of the great troubles, isn't it? My irritation with Hunt is still--with some principles added on, certainly--it's still the irritation of the respectable post-master's son who has been treated by the gendarme like a vagabond who needs to be shaken out of the café and sent on down the road. --With some added principles."

He squints into his glass of wine again and then drains it, having discovered something not very admirable about himself. Ah, hell.

"Well! Addressing the principles, as they are more interesting than the vagaries of L'aigle de Meaux. I agree, Enjolras: both lines need to be taken. As for checks on our little police-government, one place to start would be finding some way the public can effectively review the police's performance."

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac has been listening with interest - and drinking - and can foresee a few problems they may run into.

'I suggest, in the first instance, that someone speak to the head of Security. It may be that there are circumstances we are not aware of. Perhaps he is simply a bad policeman? His removal would solve the problem of his persecuting behaviour, at the least. But I agree that there is little transparency in general, and this should be addressed for the good of all - again, the leader might be able to clarify these details, or the barmen themselves.'

He blows his cheeks out contemplatively.

'As to reviewing the performance, I understand that records are kept in the office. Whether patrons are allowed to see them, I do not know.'

From:

Bossuet chuckles--"I had in mind something more like the review an actor gets from the cheap seats. A little more interactive."

From:

Bahorel grins. "As an official ruffian and layabout who shouldn't be allowed anywhere near respectable fellows, and a fond patron of the cheap seats in theater, I'd suggest seeing if we can't find a few other people to join our claque before we issue a public review. Officers like Hunt tend to inspire commentary. If people think they've found a publisher willing to pay the censors for them,they're more likely to share that opinion. As for the second option-- we may find people willing to help with that too, if public record proves to be not too public."

Bahorel is feeling no moral conflict at all about his end of the fight. Bossuet's right; Hunt was acting like they were the Wrong Sort.

Bahorel's objection to the very idea of there being a Right Sort is a perpetual beat setting the rhythm of his whole life. If Hunt wants to move against that, they're going to collide. The thought hardly distresses him.

From:

He laughs. "Well, certainly I don't propose starting with a booing and a hissing. Or with throwing old cabbage. But public servants need to know the public watches them and is the essential critic of their performance."

From:

Enjolras agrees with Bahorel, on the whole: indignation is warranted, because no one ought to be treated as gendarmes treat a vagabond, to be rousted out as roughly as the mood takes them. But the assumptions of an upbringing aren't always easily shed; he doesn't say anything about Bossuet's rueful self-assessment. Enjolras is categorically not the man to go to if what you want is to be told to go easy on yourself in your moral self-examination.

He's been listening quietly, and eating his share of the meat and cheese. Now, he says, "We have a few avenues of approach. None preclude the others. It seems to me they may be best accomplished in parallel in any case."

A division of labor among friends of intelligence and principle, who share their knowledge as they share trust. There's no better way to approach any problem in the world. And, in Enjolras's somewhat biased opinion, no better group of friends to share trust and labor with.

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac grins, and pours more wine.

'I'm all for a public review of that sort, but if we are to split duties in finding out the system of this place, may I suggest that Bossuet and Bahorel are in the best position to throw metaphorical cabbages? Having made such an auspicious start in that regard already...and at least one of them being so well suited to the work.'

He sounds a little hopeful that he might be allowed to throw some cabbages himself, but does realise there is no point them all getting on Security's bad side at present, as it will surely turn general opinion against them.

'Those of us so far not arrested could make some more discreet enquiries. Though I am not at all sure such division of labour is necessary, as the people who live here seem to know the business of everyone else in any case. At least, that is what I have seen so far. It may be that any of us need only ask questions.'

Which would be very disappointing.

Edited Date: 2014-11-21 12:05 am (UTC)

From:

Lesgle stretches his glass over to Courfeyrac for a refill. (Yes, he already has a bottle at his elbow. But if someone is pouring, you don't miss the opportunity.)

"Bahorel, how do you feel about being one of Nature's born cabbage-throwers? --For my part, well, I already talk to several people on Security, and I had rather hold my cabbages in reserve until I know where to aim them."

He frowns. "--This may not have been the best metaphor. We may need to abandon it. There's no point criticizing without having improvements ready to offer. --Well. Joly, how do you feel about talking to Teja? It wouldn't be too dishonest to say that you were distressed and puzzled by the treatment of your friends?"

His voice is joking, but not the look that he gives Joly. Joy was distressed, and Lesgle doesn't want to make any kind of mockery of it.

"Beyond that, someone needs to find the mysterious head of security. Melinda Fray? That was the name? I'm not sure who would be..." Lesgle thinks of Bahorel as good at talking to women, but he's not entirely sure this is the same set of skills.

Edited Date: 2014-11-21 12:23 am (UTC)

From:

Joly had been distressed, yes. He is distressed; he'd been hoping this particular sort of complication wouldn't be part of this second life. But being able to plan, to feel that there's something to be done about the problem-- and the problem may yet chiefly be Gene Hunt--is more than reassuring. He tucks the kittens in on the bed and makes his own way to the food and wine.

"I was planning to speak to Teja anyway; he'll want to know how the kittens are getting on. And I don't know how much security knows about each others' movements, or how closely they're associated." There's a quick flicker of a frown. "I don't know much about how this place works, really. I'm afraid I've been studying the wrong side of it for this; physics don't really seem to be the issue."

The frown vanishes into a grin. "It'll be a change to ask questions about Milliways that someone might actually be able to answer." And the thought of Gene Hunt having to explain himself to a displeased theater audience is charming, too. He laughs, and leans into Bossuet more than strictly necessary, reaching for the other bottle. "I don't mind."

From:

Bahorel laughs. "A proud occupation. I shall have cards made; Bahorel, cabbage thrower. If it comes to stockpiling ammunition, I suspect we all may have as many vegetables as we request; Bar only refuses to arm those who will not exercise such creativity." He considers the heavy bottles scattered around the room, and uncorks his own; the alcohol haze hovers over it, enticingly flammable. Bar doesn't make weapons, they'd said. "It does seem to be quite the peaceable settlement here, in spite of any police.-- No, you're right, let's make our aim as sure as we can before we begin firing. If we can't manage ourselves then the police are right, and I refuse to allow that."

He finds a glass and settles back into proper lounging on the floor. "As for this mysterious Head of Security--the only name I've heard so far is Mel Fray. I suspect I'm likely to meet her in the course of things, but I don't mind speaking with her before then."

A woman, and enough of a commander to make Gene Hunt squirm? No, he wouldn't mind speaking with her at all.

From:

le_centre

'You take all the best work.'

Courfeyrac's tone is grumbling, and he flicks a wine cork at him.

'But if you fail, I suppose I could always offer a more cultivated charm. That aside, I will speak to people in the bar in general, and get their views on Security and how rules are enforced here. Between us, we should manage to find all we need.'

From:

"Yes."

Enjolras doesn't need to say that he'll do the same as Courfeyrac. It can be understood.

That topic seems to be covered; at any rate, Enjolras has nothing further to say about it without more investigation. He rises to get a cup of coffee, for himself and for anyone else who might signal a desire for it while he's up.

From:

The quiet spins out for a few comfortable moments. Everyone gathered together, making plans of attack-- it's almost like home.(Cherubs notwithstanding.) Bahorel laughs quietly.

"Here we all are back to the fray, then. Good; I approve; too long between dances makes one lose the tune. But here, how did the last one end? Before yesterday's interruption, Enjolras had time to tell me that our France does have her Republic in time, but nothing of our little part in that. As we are all here, I take it that did not go quite as we'd have hoped. I am the late arrival, perhaps it's been discussed;but past efforts are worth considering in planning ahead. What did I miss in leaving early?"

He's after the tactics of the fight, but if others want to discuss more- or less, here in a group-- he won't argue.

From:

There's a silent moment; Enjolras glances at the others. His friends, all here -- all dead.

He's prepared to take the lead on answering. As one of the group's tacticians, the one who saw the most, and as the one, he thinks, who will be hurt the least by speaking of it.

His grief is no less than the others', but he will always be someone who chooses to voice a hard truth rather than holding his tongue about it. It won't hurt him to do so as it might Bossuet, or Joly, or Courfeyrac. But there's something that needs to be made clear first.

He sets his coffee on the gaudily decorated table in front of him, and folds his hands together on his knee.

"When we spoke yesterday, you said Bossuet had come in '30 with tales of Milliways. That means that what I have to tell you may not match with what followed for the others. When Bossuet arrived from the Glorious Days, Courfeyrac and Grantaire and I were already here. We told him all we could in hopes of changing something of the outcome, for France at least."

For themselves -- if possible. But that was always secondary.

"I'll tell you all you wish, but--" he glances here at Joly and Bossuet, leaning against each other, "--if anything I say doesn't fit what you remember, say so."

From:

Lesgle has an arm draped loosely around Joly's waist; it tightens just for a moment. But he'd expected Bahorel to ask. It's right for him to know as much as they do.

He gives Enjolras a little nod: go ahead, if you're willing.

From:

Joly squeezes Lesgle's hand in turn, and smiles at the others. "I didn't see, uh, everything-- there was the, ah, infirmary and such- but, yes. Of course. I'll mention anything that seems very out of place."

From:

le_centre

Courfeyrac shifts ever so slightly in his seat. The conversation has taken a turn down a darker path - not wholly unexpected, and probably necessary, but still more solemn that he generally likes things to be.

'You missed rather a lot, Bahorel,' is all he says, because Enjolras is far better equipped to tell this tale than he.

From:

Well.

"Under the circumstances, I'll begin a little early." He knows the broad shape was the same, but he doesn't know where details have changed, besides the bare few that Bossuet has mentioned. He didn't like to press, and there was no reason to do so, until now. They've spoken of other matters: earlier ones, and later.

Before your exit, he should say to carry on the metaphor, but he doesn't. Enjolras will extend a metaphor in rhetoric and in debate, but he's not a man who can be flip about serious matters.

"We built our barricade around the Corinthe. The same plan, Bossuet, isn't that so? Bossuet and Joly breakfasted there with Grantaire, and we others marched by, and joined them when they hailed us. Grantaire passed out upstairs, and the rest of us built the barricade."

There's no exasperation in the mention of Grantaire, only fact, though he had been annoyed enough at the time.

"We had good numbers, at least fifty. As many guns and as much powder as we could stockpile," and he estimates the quantity, because that's a detail that they strove to change; "more bullets from the Corinthe's silverware; Pépin sent more supplies in care of some workingmen. Torches, powder, vitriol. A solid barricade."

"The next few hours, mostly quiet. During that time Gavroche identified for us a police spy, an Inspector Javert. More on him later; he's here as well. We bound him in the wineshop, and promised him death ten minutes before the barricade's fall. A little after, a man who called himself Le Cabuc took it upon himself to kill the doorkeeper of one of the houses for not opening their upper storeys to us."

He'd thought, from what Bossuet said, that this happened for them too, if a little differently. He's both relieved and nothing like it to see no confused faces, only grim recognition.

"The break in discipline needed to be addressed. I executed him." His voice is steady and controlled; a calm recitation of the facts, as all of this has been, and it's only the set of his face and the line of his shoulders that betray the depth of underlying emotion; he might indeed be the statue Grantaire sometimes names him.

No one is confused by this, either. Well, he's not surprised.

"Still, damage was done. More waiting, and then the guard came, and the first attack. The Guard were repulsed, but our flag was knocked down. A brave old man, Mabeuf, raised it again at the cost of his life." Not a regicide, said Courfeyrac, but an old blockhead; but a hero that day, a martyr as brave as any. "While we were bearing him away, the Guard surprised us with a second attack. That's when you fell, Bahorel. We beat them back, but it was a close thing. Marius Pontmercy saved the day -- he had come in the confusion, he took up a torch and powder keg, he threatened to blow up the barricade and soldiers all together, and they fled rather than try his nerve."

Now comes the next hard blow, and one he knows hasn't already struck Bahorel. He's sorry to have to say it; he's sorrier that it happened.

"It was after that that we discovered Prouvaire had been taken. They shot him before we could send a man to offer a trade."

There's no way to soften this. Yesterday for Bahorel, months ago for Enjolras, and still he can nearly smell the gunpowder and smoke in the air, and nearly hear that valiant voice upraised fiercely: Long live France! Long live the future!

From:

Flip metaphors or not, Bahorel is serious about this. He listens to Enjolras quietly, interrupting only to note changes, as requested. A few extra guns, another barrel of powder, stored in the Corinth's basement in the last weeks; a few names of friends who'd followed the new disinfecting theories and not died of cholera. Oiled covers for the powder-barrels. No, not a gunshot with the porter-- ah, Bossuet told him.

Otherwise, Bahorel listens in intent silence, but without any especial distress-- it was a fight, and men died. But he was there, he knew that. He does laughs a little, quietly, at the mention of Marius-- Marius!-- saving the barricade, and nods congratulations to his fellow law students. Yes yes, they were right, he came around.

So his eyes are on Courfeyrac when Enjolras speaks of Prouvaire. He looks quickly back to Lesgle and Joly- from his side of things, with whatever little difference that might have made-- and sees only confirmation.

So.

He'd known- almost known-- that Jehan died with the rest of the barricade. From what all the rest of his friends have said-- Gavroche and Enjolras, Joly and Bossuet, both sides of it-- it didn't sound like anyone had survived.
But then he still hadn't asked for a certainty; and then there is a difference, a horrible difference, between dying in a fight alongside friends and being executed as a prisoner.

Executed quickly, at least. Before the rest of their friends could act. Before--

Bahorel covers his face with his hands, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood. For a little while, but only a little while, he says nothing.

Then he scrubs him hands back across his face and smiles a little. "Ah, Prouvaire. He would charge ahead."

He's not at all calm; he would spit on anyone who told him to be calm. His face is red, his eyes are wet, his hands are shaking with the need to strike at something. But that can wait, for now- long enough to let Enjolras finish what is, after all,a story that can't be easier to tell than to hear. He nods; go on.

From:

Bossuet rests a hand on his shoulder, if Bahorel will permit it. God knows he's not trying to steady the man. But Bahorel should know he's not alone in feeling Prouvaire's loss. "He was the bravest. Vive la France, Vive l'avenir. That's what he said before they shot him; we could hear it. The whole god-damned street could hear it."

There's a sudden bitterness that chokes him. The whole god-damned street could hear it, and yet the doors remained shut and the Guard remained unmoved.

They would have traded that man Javert. His whole miserable spying life for even just a few hours of Jean Prouvaire's: the rate of exchange seems about right.

But he can say that to Bahorel later. They don't need to stir themselves into anger right now, no matter how well-deserved. Lesgle folds himself back up against Joly and gives Enjolras and Courfeyrac an apologetic look.

Edited Date: 2014-11-22 01:23 pm (UTC)

From: