tire_moi_mes_bottes | (no subject)

Bossuet smiles very thinly. "Yes, it's possible someone along the street had a sudden attack of hearing, well after the fact, that wasn't apparent at the time."

He takes the book and begins where Bahorel had suggested. (But what a lot of book comes before, he thinks. He's almost afraid to look at the rest.)

Laigle's face goes still and somber as he reads. At the end of the introductions, and a few sentences into the next chapter, he pauses with a finger between pages and meets Bahorel's eye. "Lecter told you this?"

"Indeed." And Lesgle's obviously realized one of the same implications Bahorel did: that anyone who reads this book might know things about them that are...not private, precisely, nothing truly private to most of them is in the pages; but more than a new acquaintance should.

"He did not tell you." It's not a question.

"Mmm, no. I think I gave him back a copy of Hugo's Notre Dame that I inadvertently owed him." Accidental book theft. And a pang of selfish irritation, because that adventure was fun, damn it all, and now he has to lump it with other thoughts about Hannibal Lecter. "He neglected to mention any other Hugo novels. Though there's been time since then to read, of course."

He takes up the book again. Had the conversation with Pontmercy gone just so? He rather thinks it had, to the word. Not that he remembers it so very precisely, but some of the better phrases come back to him. That was a clever thing he'd said there, about Blondeau.

The next chapter seems to confirm Pontmercy's hand in the story, though it's not an explanation that meets all questions. Then comes the next chapter: the back-room of the Musain. He skims through Grantaire's speech without much guilt at his inattention, then pauses with a frown when he reaches his own interruption. He remembers that. And that, and that, and that.

Finally he puts down the book. "Si César m'avait donné la gloire et la guerre..." He can't make a tune happen. "Who have you spoken to about this?"

"So far? You're the first. I only found it myself just recently." He's learning not to be too specific with Milliways time. "And it is a bit of reading! Even given that I skipped much of it."

Lesgle nods at "skipping much of it." He'd avoided what he could, jumping to the place Bahorel had marked, but even so some words had jumped out.

Valjean. Cosette.

He wants to know. He doesn't want to know.

He leafs ahead to another spot Bahorel had marked, and reads with thinned lips. "No great respecter of privacy, is Hugo. --Ah, hell, Bahorel. What do you mean to do with this? I'm tempted to throw it into the fire, you know. Except you haven't a fire here. And it would be mere theater."

"No more than any novelist." Bahorel shakes his head, but he's grinning again. How can he not? It's a perfect absurdity, the whole thing. "I plan to tell the others, of course-- all our friends, at least." The police spy has chosen to be on his own; he may stay so. "And perhaps a bit more studying of the history in it; there are some discrepancies I've noticed."

1822, indeed.

"But then they may not have been discrepancies there."

And then again, why not commit to a theory?

"'There?'" He cocks his head, and after a moment remembers the bottles and takes another drink. "What are you thinking? --But Bahorel, steady a moment, if you won't laugh at me saying so. Think what you want to say to the others? It's--"

Well, maybe he's the only one whose thoughts will wander in such an odd direction.

"Why, in the world where this Monsieur Hugo was writing." He tilts a considering look at Bossuet. "It makes the most sense, as I see it. We have all spoken to gods and myths of our own world, have we not? And I have been accused of kidnapping a man who cannot possibly exist in our world." Surely they're not so far gone that Bahorel needs to argue the non-existence of Santa in their world.

"Is the conclusion not obvious? There must be many worlds; in some of them we must not exist; yet echoes come through, somehow."

"Ah."

He scratches his beard thoughtfully: this line of thought is easier than the one he'd begun to follow. "Yes, it makes a kind of sense. A vast number of worlds, each with its own Victor Hugo. Such an expanse of forehead! And in one of them--what? He makes some uncannily canny guesses about our world?"

It doesn't quite hang together.

"I wouldn't bet on each of them having a Hugo. Or maybe they all do, even the worlds where everyone is a fox or such." He shrugs. "I don't believe it's guessing, either. Call it...oh, what's that new thing Joly and Combeferre would go on about? A sort of wireless. Ideas, visions if you're the poetic sort, getting passed along in pieces to some receptors."

"Hmmm. Or a sort of magnetic fluid." He smiles a little. Whatever a magnetic fluid might be. "Something that moves in the brain at night."

That's not such a troubling thought. He takes a good long drink from his bottle and decides to keep his own notion to himself.

Maybe.

Or not.

"--It's better than the idea that we exist only courtesy of some unseen novelist's pen." Which sounds like religious metaphor, really, and he half hopes Bahorel will take it as such.

In any other context, yes, Bahorel would take it as a religious metaphor, and orate on the point or not.

Right now-- right now, he only blinks, and then starts laughing. "And what would we all be, here, then? We are dead, we are all fully gone; our novelist has dispensed with us. Does he keep a daily notebook of our adventures in this little inn?" He shakes his head.

"You may choose to believe yourself a fiction if it brings you comfort, L'aigle; you would not be the first I have known to do so. For myself, I will have no patience with an author who allows such a sloppy and unfinished sequel; and if I am a fictional character, why, I reclaim myself; the author may do as he likes, I reject that paternity, I shall not answer to him; and so it ends up the same in either case."

Lesgle lets himself laugh along with Bahorel; he'd rather that than argue out a point that brings him so very little comfort. But "it ends up the same in either case" does make him hide a wince. Yes, exactly. Things ending up the same in either case, no matter what you do.

Mesmeric forces between worlds sounds much more like something he'd want to talk with Joly about, anyway.

He puts down his bottle carefully, with the precision of someone who knows how much he's had to drink and really doesn't want to knock anything over. "I'll find another copy in the library, I expect? Or I can ask the Bar. Still, you'll be--cautious--when you bring it up with others?"

"At the cost of much personal entertainment, yes, I shall refrain from telling Enjolras exactly how Monsieur Hugo chose to describe him. Nor do I mean to use its pages to spy on those outside our circle. Beyond that-- why, it is a book, and I gather a rather well-known one in its world. Others have surely read it without my editing, and will again. What caution would you have me show?"

Yes,in fact, he is going to make Lesgle spell it out. At least partly because he really doesn't see anything upsetting in this.

He gives Bahorel a thoughtful--and somewhat unreadable--look.

"We're at a sad pass when I'm the voice of caution. Well. You may be delighted to find your words committed to paper for every man and woman to read--and you may not be shy of looking in the glass. I don't know that everyone will be so happy. Grantaire, now...an unaccepted Pylades, existing only as the reverse of Enjolras? And Enjolras, I expect he's heard Grantaire talk of beautiful marble before, but it's easier to ignore when it's not in the library for any schoolboy to snicker at. Or for any Hannibal Lecter to serve himself as a meal."

This is no joke, and he reaches over to catch at Bahorel's arm, pressing it. "And that's not even beginning to pick at the question of how our words and thoughts can be set down so exactly."

Edited 2014-12-17 21:49 (UTC)

Bahorel's own expression is, momentarily, one almost of real offense, and almost confusion. "Would you lie to them? Would you have me lie to them? What would you have me say? The book is there; we might burn it, for show or fuel, it would still be there, and back on the shelf again before the ashes were cold, I shouldn't wonder. Our friends may read it for themselves, whatever I say. Everyone may read it, to be sure, and have their own opinion."

He puts his hand over Bossuet's and leans forward, still intent. "And if there was no book, people would still read us, and make their own opinions. That is always the way of it; people come to each other with their own stories, and look to see who fits the plot they think they know. Do you think there is a line there that someone hasn't looked at us and considered, or won't, while we're here? We are all of us applauded and damned by audiences waiting to hear us echo their script, even as we try to make our own."

"This book changes nothing of that, at least not for us; except that we might know some of the stories others tell themselves of us, to the word. Well? What of that? If there is an advantage there, it is to us, so long as we know of it. Let others laugh, or sneer, or shrink away; from the lines in a book or the lines in their head, what difference does it make?"

"And if those lines are remembered from the truth- did we not think they would be, in some way? The Victor Hugo of our world surely didn't create us; perhaps he did create this, some thirty years after our death. Perhaps it was another Hugo in a world aside from ours. The true stories endure across time; this, we know. Perhaps they endure across world. And if sometimes a writer hears the voices of his tale more clearly than others- why, is that not just what writers always say, when they are in the grip of inspiration?" He does smile, now. "As for the how of it--why if I knew the mechanism for that, the trick to pull words into true, I might have served our cause far better than I did."

Lesgle's face also registers almost-offense and almost-confusion at Bahorel's first words. He interjects an exasperated Of course not at the question of lying. But he lets Bahorel continue.

When Bahorel is done, he drapes his arms loosely around his folded knees. "I wear an old coat day in and day out. Marius Pontmercy, as I recall, living on much the same income as myself, went to the length of turning an old coat of Courfeyrac's--and then only going out at night, so that he could still be in mourning. Now, you might say that each of us is a poor man and anyone who looks for more than half a second will see it too. But Bahorel, would you haul Pontmercy out into the daylight and tear his old coat off his shoulders just so he could know how very poor he looks?"

He waves a hand. "Pardon me for speaking in parables, when I think we can agree I'm no Jesus. Bahorel, I know you can be gentle. That's all I ask. Of course I don't intend to lie, or to ask you to lie. It's absurd; I'm not that stupid and neither are our friends. But my God, man, give them some warning, tread lightly. Remember that some people like to tuck their dirty linens out of sight; don't laugh when you tell them the whole neighborhood has seen their last stained threadbare shirt flapping in the breeze."

The rest, Bossuet doesn't feel like addressing. He needs to think about it, and he needs to read the rest of the book.

Bahorel watches him in silence for a while, considering. Then he smiles fondly. "You show my point. Look at this nonsense you have told yourself about me; gentle, where did you find that idea? Not in anything I have ever done." He shakes his head. "I will not pretend I understand half of your fears. As for the other half--" He considers, then laughs at himself. "--even less, I think."

"But I do not say you are wrong. Far from it-- others will more likely share your understanding of the situation than mine.I cannot promise to meet your standards of caution; I do not have your kindness. But if you would prefer to carry the news--" he holds out the book "I will wait a few days; no more. Especially if a man wishes to keep himself in the shadows, there is no fairness in not letting him know that he has stumbled into the center of the stage."

He grins then. "Or I could begin writing a note to Joly now, and you could have an excuse to practice violence, as you seemed to wish when you came to visit."

He rubs the back of his neck and laughs. "It's not you I want to fight, old fellow. Maybe you're more used to seeing friends die than I am, and maybe I'm turning into a mother-hen after that last battle. So tell me what you'd say in a note to Joly. Go on. Let's hear your side of the conversation."

More used to it? Yes, he is, at that. Thanks for the reminder. Though what that has to do with the current discussion --

As for the note, he moves to his desk and shuffles through a few pieces of paper, finds one, and clears his throat.

"Dear Joly- we're in a book by, of all men, Victor Hugo. Not too much, mind you; it's very long and there's a whole chapter about Louis-Philippe, I do not recommend the experience. I'll tell you more if you like, but don't worry too much about it. If someone tries to throw it in your face, bat your lashes and tell them you know all about it; I certainly mean to."

He considers the paper for a moment, then grabs a pen and writes dramatically while saying "p.s.Bossuet thinks too much, do something to stop it."

He tosses the paper over. It has the whole text on it. "I didn't expect to be called on for any more detail, you know. I've never known Joly to seek out historical literature with any great gusto."

Lesgle drinks while he writes, with his eyes closed. It was unfair, he supposes, to talk of friends dying. But after seeing some of these particular men die, he's all...protective.

He catches the paper in mid-air, drunk enough to be graceful again the way he was at the barricade, and folds it into his waistcoat without looking. "No, I'm sure you didn't expect to be called on for detail. You'll let someone else do that. All right. I'll take this to Joly."

Edited 2014-12-18 02:33 (UTC)

Bahorel throws his arms up. "You warn against saying too much, then complain that I've not said enough. I'm hardly likely to vanish here. You may certainly send Joly this way if you want; only I'll answer if he asks me more. As far as I can. Didn't I answer you? " He rubs his eyes; he's been doing entirely too much reading lately. "No, you want me to tell you how the universe works. I don't know. I hardly believe it does. Yes, talk to Joly; that's his sort of study."

And his own study around the matter is evidently not something he's going to be able to explain. He rolls up the other papers scattered on his desk into a rough ball, looks blankly at the walls for a moment, and then tosses himself backwards into the chair hard enough to make it creak, and hurls all the paper over his head.

"And definitely a fireplace" he says calmly, while the paper bounces and flutters down. "Tell me what he thinks of; he's sure to have a good theory."

Edited 2014-12-18 03:59 (UTC)

"I never said a word about too much. It's what you say. I--" He's talking over Bahorel, which is always tempting and rarely useful. So Bossuet waits, and leaves a good long silence after all the paper is on the floor.

"Feel any better? No? I just want you to--plan a moment how you talk to Grantaire. To Enjolras." He leans over for the bottle of vile mushroomy whatever-it-is. "And if we all have to spend the next decades--centuries--listening to Grantaire work this into an endless obscure speech about futility and shame and half-a-dozen names picked at random from the Greeks--now with chapter-and-verse citations to prove Enjolras's disdain--don't you dare run out of the room every time for a walk in the forest and leave someone else to listen to it all night and then get sicked up on. It's all very well to break a window-pane and then tear up a street just to see the effect but our friends--"

Oh, God. Is this the future? Forget centuries of Grantaire harangues; is he doomed to eternal bickering with Bahorel?

Laigle lies down carefully on the floor and stares at the ceiling. "I'm becoming a bore. I spent so many years scrupulously avoiding responsibility, and now here I am worrying about my friends' tender spirits."

Edited 2014-12-18 13:09 (UTC)

It's certainly not as good as a proper blaze for settling the mood, but he does feel a little better. Enough to laugh a little at Lesgle's self assessment. "Yes, what a change; you were so callous before. Famed for it."

"Grantaire, ah..." he laughs again, and reaches for the nearest bottle, "I don't know. Perhaps he'll see the joke of the thing. Perhaps he'll take it all in the worst way. If you've advice to give on how to tell him, I will not argue it; only, if you want me to be the bearer of odd news you must give specifics." He taps Lesgle's shoulder gently with the edge of his boot. " I think you're wrong about it worrying Enjolras, you know. He's not likely to be thrown in knowing that our cause reached people years or worlds away. But then I hardly expected you to be so rattled by it; and yet here you are, an opium-pipe away from a proper dramatic collapse."

He's not trying to be provocative, now. He is trying to understand, and his voice, despite his own earlier insistence, is gentle. "Come, now, patience with a slow learner; what's troubling you, really?" About this, or about whatever-it-was that had Bossuet storming into his rooms earlier.

"Do you have an opium-pipe?" Lesgle lifts his head and looks around. "No?" Sigh. He wonders if it's one of the things the Bar doesn't provide: it might be.

"Well, as to what troubles me with this, I...give me some time. Let me read the rest of the book, or at least the relevant portions? I present myself as an example to you, Bahorel, of how even a steady man with hardly any propriety or modesty might be bowled over by your news, whether or not you think he ought to be. I'll do my reading, I'll talk to Joly, but for Grantaire, for the others--"

There's a scratching at the door, and two papers slid underneath. Lesgle rolls himself over two or three times rather than stand up, and reads the notes. "Combeferre is here--come to Enjolras's room in two or three hours--no--come to Joly and Bossuet's room at once."

Well. This is enough to make him sit up, stand up, and even abandon his bottle(s) of drink.