[This does not seem to be quite finished.]

3/24/00 8:44:02 PM

Rue de la Chanvrerie
Apartment buildings and a few cafes are lining the streets on both sides,
and there is a group of angry-looking young men talking among themselves
in front of one of the cafes. It is thunderstorming.

The road continues to the north and leads onto a bridge to the south. A
path slopes downward along the river, and the Rue des Gres branches off to the west.

Mocky lies quite unnoticably near a small bundle of junk in the gutter a
few blocks into the seedier district of the RdlC from the Corinth.

Grantaire makes his somewhat unsteady way out the door after you-know who. "Look here, now, that's not an argument. I thought you were good at
arguments, you just walk out, you didn't even say good day to, to,
whatsername, in there..."

Enjolras strides away from Grantaire unfalteringly, in distinct contrast
to the staggering one. "Get away from me," he says tersely, ignoring
whatever it is the annoyance is saying.

"Look, I'll leave you be, yes? I won't say a word, but you can't just /go/
like that..." Grantaire persists, rather pathetically, and starts after
him; then, to add insult to injury, trips over an agglomeration of
debris-and-child and goes, not quite sprawling, but thudding.

Which elicits some cross between a weak bark and a yelp from the child,
who doesn't quite move but to bring a knee up to hit the curb.

Enjolras turns around when he hears the collapse. He asks, "Aren't you
human enough to walk upright?" then realizes that his shadow has tripped
over an unfortunate soul. He kneels at the side of the obstacle-person.
Not Grantaire, the other one. "Are you all right?" he asks, but he's not
addressing R.

Grantaire lets out a sort of muffled yelp as he hits the ground, swearing
vaguely, until he too registers there's a person down there. Not only
that, but after a minute he figures out it's someone he's met. "Oh--
/God/, enfant. What in the..."

Mocky blinks, and tries to focus her eyes on the person suddenly above
her. "M-mmssm." comes a mumble.

Enjolras glares at Grantaire. "Get off of the poor thing." In a much
kinder voice, he asks the little one, "Has this terrible man hurt you,
dear?"

That wins him a glare and a remarkably colorful oath, but it's muted.

Mocky moves her head slightly at the mention of another, who must have
delivered the blow that had awoken her. Why, it's the man who could leave
the Corinth after all. She blinks and moves her mouth at him, but no more
murmurings emit.

Enjolras asks, "Can't you speak, petite?" He frowns at her mouthings. "I
cannot hear you."

Grantaire glances at Enjolras, then picks himself up a little and puts out
a large ungainly hand to Mocky, who seems in need of one.

Enjolras pushes Grantaire's hand away. "See what damage you have already
wrought with your drunkenness? Would you compound it?"

Grantaire pushes back. "Go wave a flag." And looks back down at the child.

Enjolras * he's really tempted to smack you, R.
Grantaire * he can. :)
Grantaire * peers Mockyward.

Mocky blinks backward and forward at them as they speak. She seems very
still, though, especially for one who would have seen her parading around
Grantaire's apartment at the earlier date.

Enjolras is quite surprised at the physical resistance from someone he'd
thought was falling over every second. "Get away from the child," he says,
nearly through clenched teeth. "You've already hurt her enough."

Mocky tries to protest that she's NOT hurt, by putting up a hand, but, in
truth, she is in pain. Just not so much from being tripped over as from
the reason she's lying down here in the first place.

Definite outrage this time. And yes, hurt. Grantaire climbs to his knees.
"Eh bien, since you know so much. Going to try laying on of hands?"

Enjolras restrains himself from attacking the reprobate who trips over
children and then decides to argue. "She is in pain. We should find a
doctor. Or rather, I should, if you think you can stay with her and manage
not to step on her again."

Grantaire takes a deep breath, and retorts with no little venom, "I have
little sisters, monsieur, who /weren't/ raised by nurses in starched
aprons, either. I think I can stay with a child. And even I don't trip
over people when I'm sitting on the ground."

Mocky tries to roll back away from the curb to follow Grantaire with her
eyes as he gets up. She almost succeeds, and her head wobbles as she
focuses on him, a hand wandering out.

Enjolras stands up and brushes off his pant legs slightly, "I would put
nothing past you," he answers just as harshly. Then, he turns away and
goes in search of a doctor.

Grantaire shoots back, but without force, "I know that." He takes Mocky's
questing hand almost absent-mindedly, watching Enjolras walk away for a
moment, before looking back down at her with a worried frown.

Mocky's skin is rather warm, even in extremities. She moves her arm
against his, finding it very cool and comforting.

Grantaire squeezes the small hand gently. "What happened, p'tite?"
There are quick footsteps at the end of the street. A small, worried man
with a black bag comes at an almost-run with Enjolras at his side.

Mocky opens her mouth a little toward Grantaire.

Enjolras calls out to Grantaire, "I've brought Doctor Lioncourt." To the
doctor, he says, "That man tripped over the poor child."

Grantaire swings Mocky's hand lightly, then glances up. "I tripped over
her," he says acidly, "because she was lying in the street, which suggests
to my layman's mind that there's something wrong with her to begin with."

Doctor Lioncourt clucks his tongue against his teeth and kneels next to
the little one. "Ma petite, what is your name?"

Mocky looks up from Grantiare to the new face, flushed, she manages a
weak, "Mm..." and mouths a word.

Dr. Lioncourt frowns. "You cannot speak? Do you understand me?"

Grantaire supplies, "Marie, Margot, Mireille?" in hopes he'll get a
'that's it' sign, then shuts up again to let the doctor talk.

Enjolras asks archly, "Do you think you are a doctor, winecask?"

Grantaire wisely doesn't react this time. Or at least, doesn't answer.

Mocky nods to the Doctor gently, and moves Grantaire's hand until it rests
on her throat.

Mocky * suddenly notices that "Mocky" doesn't sound French ;) Hmm.
Enjolras * Maquis?
Grantaire * maybe it's a translation. :)

Grantaire looks down at the child in bewilderment, not sure what he's
supposed to be doing.

(Enjolras was, at this point, dragged from the computer.)

The doctor puts his hand down also on the girl's throat, noting the
swelling. "Can you open your mouth for me?" he asks.

Maquis nods, and opens her mouth, into which the Doctor tries to peer in
the dim light of the nearest streetlamp.

Grantaire watches anxiously. Without Enjolras hanging around to heckle and
inspire him to be contrary, he's not at all sure he's not in the way.

Doctor Lioncourt nods a little, "Looks like an infection... but I can't
tell the extent of it in this light. Is there somewhere nearby we might
take her?"

"There's my room," Grantaire offers. "'S clean," he adds immediately.

He nods, "Well-lit?" he questions quickly, but he's already eying the
girl, trying to figure out how to lift her.

Grantaire shrugs. "Better than this." He shifts, leaning down to scoop
Mocky up in his arms, carefully but without scientific nicety.

Maquis gives a slight twitch at being lifted, but soon relaxes int he
hold.

The doctor stands up, and nods, ready to follow.

Grantaire gets rather awkwardly to his feet, and stumbles off toward the
boarding house, trying not to jostle the gamine any more than necessary.

The doctor follows quickly, "Do you... know this girl?" he's a little
curious about why anyone would go out of their way to hire him for an
ordinary gamine.

Grantaire kicks the door, since he can't open it with Maquis in his arms.
"Not really. A tripping acquaintance."

The landlady shortly opens the door, expostulating. "What's all this now?"

The doctor steps forward quickly, "I'm a physician, Madame. We are taking
this girl to this gentleman's room, where I might examine her." he hopes
to reassure her.

"Gentleman!" snorts Madame Delacroix under her breath, but she steps aside
respectfully all the same. Doctors impress her.

Grantaire marches in with the girl, almost steadily, even.

Maquis hangs in his arms, huddled against him a little.

The doctor follows with a polite nod to the landlady.

Grantaire starts slowly up the stairs. This is going to be an interesting
navigational feat.

The doctor follows almost like a spotter, seeing the unsteadiness of the
situation.

The doctor seems relieved when they reach the top floor.

Grantaire kicks at his own door, and this time it gives by itself, since
as usual he's forgotten to lock it. "'s in here. I think there's a lamp."

He heads in, and, heading over to a place where he might work, tries to
find a spot on the table not occupied with empty bottles on which to set
his case.

Grantaire * now now, he cleans up after himself! :)
Maquis * Does he? Color me surprised. I don't suppose he gets much company
here ;)
Grantaire * well, no, apart from the occasional concerned Ami and such,
but he's moderately fastidious. At least in my head he is. About as much
as I am, which means he forgets stuff for a week and then says "God, this
place is a mess!" and straightens it up some.
Grantaire * but it's not really a large issue, so.

"Hell," remarks Grantaire, and edges in after the doctor to let Maquis
down on the unmade but reasonably decent bed. "Let me get that."

Maquis sprawls out on the bed, and lies still. It feels very soft and
slept in. Not like the pavement.

Grantaire pauses to smooth her hair back lightly, then turns and starts
clearing off the table unceremoniously, at the expense of an empty corner.
"Keep meaning to throw some of this out..."

The doctor gratefully sets the case down and opens it, then looks over to
the lamp, "Might you get that going?" he questions quickly, before turning
back to th case and pulling out a few items.

Grantaire tosses a book onto the shelf, and starts rummaging for matches.
I don't care if they're invented yet or not. ;)

Maquis gives a slight yawn as the comfort of the bed lulls her. Too wide,
though, and her throat aches, so she tries to restrain it.

Grantaire locates the matches, and with a small amount of fumbling lights
the lamp. It smokes a bit, then steadies.

The doctor comes over at the light, and leans over the girl with a...
um... mouth-looker-inner-thing. You know what I mean. And I bet you can
guess what he does next?

Grantaire shakes out the match, drops it on the table, and scrubs his
hands on his trousers. Think, R. Clear head. Right. If someone had told me
there was going to be a sick child in the street I'd have made
arrangements. "Is she all right?"

The doctor makes a doctorly "hmmm..." sound as he peers down the swollen,
blotchy throat. "It's a little worse than I originally thought. Then
again, I've seen worse. It depends. If she goes back and lays down in the
gutter again, I think not."

Grantaire takes a moment to process this. Then: "She can stay here, of
course." As though it was a foregone conclusion.

The doctor looks around... well, it doesn't look like much of a family
home, but it's preferrable to the streets. "Right. I need to run back to
the office and pick up a prescription. I will return shortly. Until then,
you can work on keeping her warm." he looks to Grantaire for approval of
this plan.

Grantaire nods promptly.

Then, Dr. Lioncourt steps out the door, and footsteps are heard going down
the stairs.

Grantaire watches the door shut, and rakes a hand through his hair
thoughtfully. Then he goes over to the bed and starts tugging blankets
into order. "All right, p'tite. Let's make you comfortable."

Maquis rubs her head over the sheet, trying to find cool spots to put her
warm head.

Grantaire eases a blanket up over the small grubby form. "How long've you
been sick, now? --oh, that's right, you can't talk... how many days, can
you show me?"

Maquis holds up a grubby handful of fingers. Then, reconsidering, adds an
extra finger from her other hand.

"Lord," says Grantaire, appalled. Then, "Well now, you must be about ready
to get better, then, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" He tucks her in awkwardly but
effectively.

Maquis nods emphatically, then shakes her head, pushing at the blankets.
She waves her five days at herself like a fan, showing how hot she is.

Grantaire pauses. "P'tite, the doctor says keep you warm."

Maquis waves her hand faster, becuase she is already quite warm, or that's
what she would say.

"Take it up with the doctor," Grantaire says firmly, and smooths the
blanket over her before going to light the fire. And as it comes back to
him who this child is, "Say now, I told you I lived somewhere besides
Corinth, didn't I?"

Maquis nods her head, and takes the opportunity to lift her hands over the
blankets rebeliously.

"Now you see," he says from the hearth. "Rather decent place, if I do say
so. Snug. --How old are you, anyway?" He glances over to see her answer.

Maquis holds up four fingers, then a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh,
and an eighth. Then she puts down the eighth. Then she puts up the eigthth
and a ninth. Then she puts down the ninth and the eighth. Seems she's
indecisive on this point.

"Eight," Grantaire estimates after this performance is done. "Eight? I've
a sister not much older than you. I'll bet you don't believe I have
sisters, either."

Maquis shakes her head, eyes wide, with a slight smile.

Grantaire levels a finger at her for a moment. "Shows how much you know.
Four, to be exact. Jeanne, Clarisse, Marie, and Paulette's the little one,
about your age, she's ten. Hasn't got your big brown eyes, though."

Maquis lifts a hand to point at her eye, and gives Grantaire a
questioning, almost challenging glance.

Grantaire looks, and assumes an air of surprise. "Oh. They're green. I do
apologize."

Maquis seems only half-satisfied with this 'proof', and she leans back to
consider it. After a moment she tries to push the cover down again, just a
little.

Grantaire finishes fussing with the fire, bites the bullet (*oh, what an
unfortunate phrase*) and lights the thing. Sitting back to see if it
catches, he inquires with a touch of honest trepidation, "You don't mind
staying here till you're better, do you?"

Maquis shakes her head a little. It's nice here, even if it is really
really hot under all these blankets.

Grantaire nods a bit, seemingly relieved. "I know I'm a sight to frighten
most children," he explains candidly, "even when I behave myself, which I
don't, much, do you? No fun at all. But if you don't mind, that's all
right. If you did, you know, there's some people I know would be glad to
lend you a bed. Like the gentleman in the street, you remember him, the
sweet-tempered one."

Maquis scrunches up her nose a little. He yelled too much. She shows
Grantiare she thinks he's cool, by blowing him a kiss.

It wins her a lopsided grin, and an elaborately blown kiss in return.
"Mam'zelle." As the fire's starting to burn properly now, he clambers to
his feet and drops into the chair. "Lord, I didn't realize how cold it was
in here. --You like stories, p'tite?"

Maquis nods a few times, and makes a gesture like shooting a gun, and
another gesture where her hand imitates a man falling over. That's the
kind of stories she likes.

Grantaire snickers. "Uncouth child. I should hunt up some storybooks. Pass
the time while you're bed-rid." He leans back in the chair with a faint
sigh.

A knock sounds at the door.

"Entrez, mind the wastebasket," calls Grantaire in one breath. The
wastebasket is in fact sitting awkwardly near the doorway.

The doctor re-enters, with a sack, which he opens and pulls out a bottle
of pills that are cut in half. "She needs to take three of the half-pills
a day, evenly spaced, until two weeks are up. Even though she'll probably
feel better before one week, she needs to stay on it the whole two weeks."
he warns.

"Two weeks," Grantaire says, stunned.

The doctor looks at him, "Will there be a problem?"

There is a pause. "No. No, no problem."

He nods, considering briefly the shocked look, and he figures that now is
as good a time as any, so he pulls out the bill he wrote up at the office,
which was also in the sack, and he hands it to the gentleman.

Grantaire blinks at it. Right. He's supposed to explain /this/ expense to
aunt Claudette. Then diabolical inspiration strikes. "Ah," he says. "Of
course. Could you send it--" he reaches for pen and paper, scribbles an
address. "Here you are."

The doctor looks at it briefly, ordinarily he might not trust this fellow
alone... but with the respectable gentleman who brought him to the scene,
he feels secure that everything will be taken care of. Thus, he goes over
to the table, replaces the mouth-looker-inner-thing, and closes it, then
picks it up and takes his leave with a bow.

Maquis gives a question glance tot he back of Grantaire's head.

Grantaire returns a polite inclination of the head from his chair and a
cordial: "Evening." Not till the door is shut and the footsteps recede
does he permit himself a small snicker. "That," he tells Maquis, "takes
care of that."

The Next Day, in front of the Corinth

Grantaire has been waylaid by one of the newer and less fanatical Amis, halfway between his boarding house and the cafe, and is explaining something to him with his usual expansiveness of gesture.

Enjolras puts a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "Monsieur, I have something to discuss with you."

Grantaire starts violently, caught off guard, and turns in blank surprise. The other one starts to say something enthusiastic in greeting, then registers the look on Enjolras' face and shuts up.

Enjolras holds up the bill. "You expect me to pay this, and yet you are not talking care of the dear child with whom you were so concerned that you tripped over her. You step on the girl in the street, you abandon her, and goodness knows where she is now. And you expect me to pay for her care, when you abuse her so?"

Grantaire blinks a few times. Oh. That. He stares innocently at the paper for a moment, then flicks a bland look up at Enjolras. "You can pay it, I can't, and you're the one who called the doctor in the first place. The child's in bed, asleep, which is where she belongs, the door is locked and she's safe as houses. If it's any of your business, my demigod, I'm out to do the damned shopping so I can feed her."

"Oh." Enjolras pauses, trying to think of the right words to fix his faux pas. "I'm glad you're taking care of her, then." Something approaching 'I'm sorry' flits through his brain, but he dismisses it. "Do you need any help? More money? Extra hands to carry the shopping?"

The other youngster has prudently retreated to the door of the cafe.

Grantaire does a sort of subtle double-take, blinking slowly. "Matter of fact, that might be useful, if you care to come along." He seems about to say more, but heroically stops himself.

Enjolras nods. "I shall then, if I could see the girl again. I want to know that she is doing well." He folds the bill again and puts it in the inside of his vest. "And on the way, I can stop by the doctor's office and pay him."

Grantaire merely nods to this latter statement, tucking his hands in his pockets and starting out down the street. "But of course you can see her, if you don't mind going up to my hole-in-the-wall. Do her good, most likely, it gets dull for a little one in bed all day."

Enjolras nods as sagely as he can manage under the circumstances. "Yes, the poor thing. Perhaps some of the woodcuts in one of my books would interest her." He glances up at the other boy and smiles at him. "Bonjour." Then he asks Grantaire, "Shall we be going?"

"Bonjour," returns the boy, much impressed, and thus inadvertently covers for Grantaire, who appears amused by the idea of the woodcuts as he heads out.

Enjolras follows Grantaire, for once. "Do you think that she would, though? Maman always said that I should keep some of them away from my sisters, so that their innocence wouldn't be ruined. However, I believe that a gamine on the streets has seen much worse things than a woodcut of a devil or a witch."

"Like real ones," Grantaire agrees cheerfully. "She tells me -- well, she doesn't tell so much as show, you know, she can't talk, her throat's all swelled up like the head of a third-year law student -- she gives me to understand, I should say, that she likes to be told stories if there's blood in them."

Enjolras coughs at the 'third-year law student' line. "Bloody stories for a girl of that age? That is not the right way to build the foundation of a country. Certainly, we should not protect her innocence and lock the door after the horse has been stolen, but neither should we encourage her inappropriate ideas. Perhaps I should read to her from some more appropriate texts."

Grantaire says patiently as he turns the corner, "Yes, but we're not building a country, mon ami, we're keeping a scruffy child amused so she doesn't crawl out of the sickbed and go look for a frog to torture."

Enjolras echoes, "A frog to torture?" He's just not used to the heartlessness of children. "My sisters would never do something like that." He notices a knot of chattering ragpickers, dusty and ragged, and remembers that this child has a good chance of becoming one of them. "But then, Maman wants them to be ladies, and they try."

Grantaire sidesteps an enterprising urchin with matches to sell. "Ah yes. Do you? Want them to, that is."

"There are worse things that they could be, and better, too." He shakes his head and tells the urchin, "None for me, not today, thank you." To Grantaire, he continues, "If a girl has ambition, she can be a wonderful woman, but she certainly cannot be a man. She must use the feminine paths to power. Lady-like manners and wealth are one path."

Grantaire valiantly swallows a snicker. "Mmmm."

Enjolras asks, "'Mmmm' what?"

"I just said Mmmm," Grantaire says innocently. "And what do your sisters think of this philosophy?"

Enjolras thinks about that for a few minutes, then laughs to himself. "The older ones would agree, but Chantoinette would rather put on boys' clothes and hide among the Amis."

Grantaire throws back his head and laughs delightedly. "Would she!"

Enjolras smiles, thinking of his far-off sister. "If she didn't know that I would recognize her and send her home in a trice, she'd be here already." He shakes his head, thinking of seeing little Chantal pounding a table as she argues with Combeferre. "Maman would have fits. That's not exactly a bad thing."

Grantaire snickers. Then: "Would you now?"

"Would you let your little sister run free in Paris?" He's not amused anymore. "Surely you've seen the horrible things that happen to innocent girls here. People who are oppressed tend to take out their feelings of repression on each other. No child should be exposed to that if she can be shielded."

Grantaire casts him one of those unreadable glances. "My little sister does run free in Paris. Or she would if she lived here. One can't always do much."

Enjolras looks away. "I'm sorry." He is silent for a moment. "At least we can help this one."

Grantaire amends, more gently than is his wont, "We can try."

Enjolras asks, "What did you need to buy?"

Grantaire swerves round the next corner. "Oh... milk. And I don't know, what does a sick brat need... my mother used to give us soup, but madame pruneface is taking care of that..."

"Fresh bread is good, and vegetables. Oranges, if we could find them. Maman swore by them." Enjolras shakes his head and asks, "Do you want me to take the child home? I could take care of her." Silently, he adds, 'and you're incompetent.'

If Grantaire hears the subtext, however, he ignores it. "'Sallright," he says genially, "we're managing, la p'tite and I. Oranges, you say. That's an idea."

Enjolras says in his normal preaching tones, "Fruit is good for sick children."

Grantaire nods. "All right."

"Do you know what kind of sick she is?" He realizes that this question is a bit too oblique, and adds, "Will she need medicine?"

Grantaire nods again, and evades another street vendor. "She's got medicine. Dinky little pills she's supposed to take. Is taking. All the man said was 'infection', which I presume means in her throat since that's what hurts her, I really couldn't say. I'm not Joly."

Enjolras opines, "Ah." He steps around a game that a few gamins are playing on a stoop. "Do you need more of the pills for her?"

A shake of the head, this time. "Supposed to last her two weeks, which he says is all it'll take."

Enjolras pauses at a fruit vendor's stall. "Ten oranges, please," he says to the vendor, and turns to ask Grantaire, "Is there anything else you want?"

Grantaire casts him an odd look. Mildly, he says, "All I really need is a hand with the things. And the small matter already discussed, of course."

Enjolras nods. "I was just wondering, since you apparently needed help with the bill. I can afford the oranges and things of that nature, after all."

Grantaire shakes his head. "'Sallright," he says again. And with a touch of embarrassment, "It's mainly, you see, that I have to answer to my aunt and I don't think she'd approve of my calling in the doctor for a beggar child."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and takes the bag of oranges from the vendor, paying with a few coins. "And she would approve of luxuries like these?"

Grantaire shrugs. "She'll make less noise, anyway. 'Sides which that kind of thing goes in under 'day-to-day expenses' or whatever, I don't give the old biddy lists!" A quick crooked grin.

"Oh. Then shall I simply help you carry these home?" He hasn't gained any faith that this man can take care of the child, but if he does have a steady source of money, perhaps there is hope.

Grantaire nods, glancing at him with another of those lopsided smiles. "If you would." He pauses, then heads off toward the next place in his abrupt way.

Enjolras shakes his head. "Eh bien," he says to himself, "if there weren't a child in the man's bed I'd be safe at home." Louder, he says, "What does she have to drink?"

Grantaire slants him a dryly amused glance. "Water. What did you think?"

Enjolras doesn't meet the glance. "I was just wondering."

the milk. "/Here/ we are."

Enjolras nods and takes out a few more coins. "Two quarts, would you say?"

Grantaire waves at him. "No, now, put that away, I told you... Oh, probably." He pokes in his own pocket.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "This is nothing."

The shopkeeper shakes his head at the arguing men and goes to get the milk.

Grantaire plunks down the coins and rakes his tousled hair back. "Yes, I know."

Enjolras's lips set in a firm line. In his mind, the list of 'Reasons Why I Don't Like Grantaire' grows slightly. "Fine," he says in a very controlled voice, and puts his coins away.

Grantaire glances heavenward. "Thank you," he says with elaborate courtesy to the now-probably-frightened shopkeeper.

The milkman takes the coins and hands over the milk. "De rien, Monsieur."

Grantaire nods, and sets off again. Enjolras can follow or not just as he pleases, is the general impression.

Enjolras follows reluctantly. "What else do you need?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Think that's all for the moment."

Enjolras persists, something which he does terribly well. "Are you sure? You haven't bought bread yet."

Grantaire swings around with all the exasperated tension of a man about to yell; but when it comes to it, he doesn't. This is Enjolras, after all. "All right. All right."

Enjolras backs off when he realizes how upset the man is. "I was trying to help you," he says defensively, and thrusts the bag of oranges at Grantaire. "I shall bring over those books with the woodcuts tonight, or perhaps tomorrow."

Grantaire sighs. "I don't have enough hands for that."

Enjolras frowns. He had been quite prepared to divest himself of this nuisance. "Would you like me to drop them at your flat, then, and check on la petite?"

Grantaire shrugs a little. "Just as you please."

Enjolras's frown deepens. "Damn it, man, I am not carrying these things for pleasure. Do you want me to do you a favor or not?"

Grantaire shoves his free hand through his hair again, quiet for a minute. At last he says gruffly. "I'm going back. Come along or don't, it's entirely up to you."

Enjolras is quite angry. He does not care for being snubbed by the least of his companions. "If I accompany you, it is not at all for your benefit. For that matter, I am not at all certain you can take care of this child. You profess knowledge which you obviously do not possess."

"And you do," Grantaire says dryly.

Enjolras answers quite loudly, "Yes, I do. I have nursed sick children." He pauses for a moment. "I will not drink away the money the poor child needs for medicine."

Grantaire puts down the milk jug, because he can't fold his arms defiantly till he does. "Look, monsieur Benevolent Angel, I've told you: the child's in bed, asleep, in a warm room, with medicine for two weeks and the prune face's concoctions to nourish her. What do you /want/ from me?"

"Nothing at all." Enjolras throws the bag of oranges at Grantaire and turns to leave.

Luckily, ten oranges don't actually fly very far, but Grantaire winces all the same. And watches him walk off for about four steps before throwing up his hands and turning away. "Damned self-righteous idiot," he mutters under his breath.

Enjolras strides away, saying loudly to the air, "Damn the man, why must he be so stubborn? If he would listen to reason, it would be so much easier." He gestures angrily at nothing.

Grantaire shoots a glance back toward him, but elects not to answer that. Instead he leans over to pick up the maltreated produce.-

- - - -

There is an impatient sort of knock on the door, and then another.

Maquis stops examining the underside of Grantaire's hand to look up, first to the door, then to him.

Grantaire has drawn up a chair beside the bed, so he can sit by Mocky while she has her dinner. "Yes?" he inquires of the door.

Enjolras sounds rather sullen and quite resentful of the closed door. "I brought the books."

"Oh, Lord," Grantaire says in an undertone, and aloud: "Hold on." He unfolds out of the chair and ambles over to open the door.

Enjolras holds out the books without a greeting or a hint of a smile.

Maquis releases Grantaire's hand grudgingly and her fingers wander to the spoon again.

Grantaire looks down at them with a faintly befuddled air.

"The books," Enjolras elucidates. "The ones with the woodcuts for La Petite. What is her name?" He asks with perfect confidence that Grantaire does not know the answer.

Maquis brings the spoon to her mouth as she looks over, then calls out over it, spilling a few drops, in a kind of weak voice, but a voice anyway, "I'm Maquis." she answers.

Grantaire takes the books, and promptly almost drops them, turning. "Did you -- well, now, you must be feeling better, eh?" With a grin that's actually warm he crosses back to the bed, beckoning Enjolras in with a jerk of his head.

Enjolras walks into the room, smiling at the girl as if she had invited him instead of the degenerate. "Enchantee, Maquis. I am glad you feel better."

Maquis nods some, but she looks at the other familiar fellow a little pensively.

Enjolras half bows to her. "I am..." he pauses. "Marcelin."

An odd little noise comes from the table, where Grantaire's gone to deposit the books.

Enjolras does not bother to glance at Grantaire. He is insignificant. "Would you like to look at one of these books? They have pictures."

Maquis looks up at him, wrinkling her nose as she does not answer his question, but labels him as he stands there. "Fake-er." comes the denunciation from the healing vocal chords.

Grantaire turns around to lean wearily on the table. Then blinks at Maquis.
Enjolras freezes for a moment, then leaves.
_ _ _ _ _

Combeferre makes his leisurely way down the street, not seeming to mind the rain particularly.

Enjolras walks very slowly and uncertainly up the street. Every few steps he stops, mouths a few words, and shakes his head. He repeats the performance several times, then leans against a building and wraps one arm around himself.

This is so uncharacteristic that it's not until Combeferre is within ten paces of his friend that he recognizes him. "--Marcelin?"

Enjolras turns away and slams his free hand into the building's side. In a growl, he answers, "Oui."

Combeferre blinks. He pauses a moment, then comes a couple of steps nearer, in that noninvasive sort of wander of his. Quietly, he says, "What's the matter?"

Enjolras crooks his arm around his head and rests against the building. For a few deep breaths, he stays like that, still turned away from the street and the world. After a few minutes, he pushes himself more upright and begins brushing dust, real or imagined, from his shirt. "Do you think I am fake?" His voice cracks on the last word.

Combeferre stares. "Do I wh--" but no, don't make the man repeat it. "Certainly not."

Enjolras half laughs. It sounds rather more like a sob, if he ever sobbed. "That makes one person who believes that." He leans back against the wall, and slides down it as if he does not realize that his knees are giving out on him.

"Mon Dieu," says Combeferre, taken aback, and, "Here, let's get in out of the rain." He offers a matter-of-fact hand.

Enjolras asks vaguely, "Is it raining?" He takes the hand and stands.

"Pitchforks." Combeferre tugs him lightly toward the cafe. "I don't know what it is, it was clear as crystal this morning."

Enjolras comprehends where he is being taken. He protests, "No, I don't want to go there. There are people I don't want to see."

Combeferre casts him a worried frown. "No? All right. Where shall we go?" He keeps his tone casual.

Enjolras shrugs and seems as if he might sit down again until he begins to walk north. "The park is lovely."

In the rain? Combeferre shakes his head, and walks along with him, humoring the distressed of mind.

Enjolras kicks a stone. He doesn't seem to notice that it splashes into several puddles before it comes to a stop. "Have you heard about Grantaire's ward?"

Combeferre lets out a surprised chuckle. "No..."

Enjolras continues in a flat tone of voice, "She was ill. He tripped over her in the street. I paid the doctor's bill. I bought her oranges." His voice becomes more choked as he continues. "I was going to bring her books to look at while she's in bed, but she didn't want them." He stops talking because there is apparently a stone lodged in his throat.

Combeferre studies him quietly, listening. He's silent for a moment after Enjolras quiets; then, greatly daring, he moves to sling an arm about his shoulders.

Enjolras does not pull away. His shoulders shake slightly under Combeferre's arm. He takes a deep breath which makes the trembling worse for a moment and forces himself to speak. "She called me a faker." The words are very quiet.

It sounds such a small thing, but Combeferre knows better than to take it as such. "Ahhh." His hold tightens for a moment.

Enjolras's shoulders shake rather more. "The worst part is that she might be right." His blond hair is plastered to his face in wet locks. The rain drips from his head as he studies the road directly in front of his feet.

Combeferre stops, his hand tightening on Enjolras' shoulder. "No."

Enjolras turns his head to look at Combeferre. His eyes are reddened and wider than normal. "I only wanted to help her," he says in a rough voice. "She did not want my help. She only wanted him." The last word is like a curse.

Combeferre draws a deep breath, and lets it out again. Wordlessly, he nudges Enjolras toward a nearby bench.

Enjolras allows himself to be nudged and sits on the bench. "I don't understand. Why would she reject me? Why does she like him?"

Combeferre eases down next to him, considering before he speaks. "Children see very clearly," he says presently, "but not very deeply. I wasn't there, mind you. But if I were to venture a guess..."

Enjolras rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands.

Combeferre continues quietly, "You are not a demonstrative man, Marcelin. You're quiet about what you feel. A child wouldn't see this, especially a child as I understand this one to be, a gamine from the streets, where nothing is quiet. A child like that wouldn't see that you cared for her."

Enjolras answers, though it is mostly muffled by his hands. "She knew he cared about her. I brought her presents. I paid the bill. Damn them both."

Combeferre sighs. "Ahhh, Marcelin." He leans against the back of the bench, regarding his friend sympathetically. And with a touch of humor: "I would say Don't take it to heart, but I can't say that to you, can I?"

Enjolras leans back. He rubs his hands down his face so that his fingers are along his cheekbones. "You can say it, but I don't know how much help it will be."

Combeferre half-smiles. "You take everything to heart. And you don't have any way to drown your sorrows, do you, mon ami? Jehan writes poetry and Joly diagnoses himself with new diseases and Grantaire drinks and Bahorel does ridiculous things, but you..." He shakes his head slightly.

Enjolras moves his hands away from his face after brushing away the wet hair. "I talk for hours on end. You know that. I talk. I write. What do you do to make yourself feel better? Ask your friends questions until they stop acting like children and get hold of themselves?"

Combeferre chuckles. "Yes, of course."

(Meanwhile, back at R's flat)

Grantaire watches Enjolras' exit with a stunned expression. After a second
he remembers to breathe.

Maquis watches him leave as Caesar must have watched the retreat of the
Gallic tribes.

Grantaire shoves both hands through his hair. He starts to say something,
but finds he can't say it at all steadily and pauses. At last he says as
gently as he can, "Why'd you do that, p'tite?"

Maquis tilts her gaze to him, "'E was a horrid fellow t'you." She pauses
here and swallows. "Ought to t'least been plite, in yr'ome an' all." She
swallows again. "An' when he acted all gobby-sweety to the Maquis, 'was
bout to fall sick 'gain." Another swallow.

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face, sorely agitated. "Children," he
mutters to the rug, "are the very devil. Maquis--" He pauses, takes a
breath. "Look..."

Maquis is looking. At you, your hand, the rug, your face, the rug, your
face...

"Look," says Grantaire again, and stops again. He's trembling slightly,
for no really good reason. He takes another breath, vainly trying to
steady himself. "Enfant, you didn't need to say that to him. He's been
worried about you, he's the one went and got the doctor for you, which I
wouldn't have remembered to do--"

Maquis looks vaguely upset by this, "Why, tho, does he act such t'you?"

Grantaire laughs faintly, without much humor. "Because he despises me. I
don't say he's wrong, either." He shoves a hand through his hair again.
"Doesn't matter. You--" And there he breaks off, because what is there to
say? He's not the child's father, and he can't very well confine her to
her room.

Maquis scrunches up her nose again. "A'say he's wrong." she attests.

"Doesn't matter, I said!" Grantaire catches himself just before he starts
to shout. "You've upset the man, enfant, and he's been very good to you,
you understand me? I don't expect table manners from you but I do think
you might have some sense of..." he trails off with a helpless gesture,
lacking words. "He didn't deserve that."

Maquis looks mildly surprised at the outburst of the normally placid and
easygoing friend. Upset at the realization of her own fault, and unwilling
to be shamed like that, she squirms out from under the covers,
miraculously without seriously disturbing anything, and tries hopping out
of it.

Grantaire watches her in dull disbelief. "What d'you think you're doing?"

Maquis peers at him, wavering on her feet a little but managing, "gon
'ome." she murmurs. She'll show them that she doesn't need any doctor
attention or anything so nice from a such a false man.

Grantaire blinks once. "You're doing no such thing." He moves tolerably
fast to get between her and the door. "You've made enough mischief. Back
in that bed, tout d'suite." He's unconsciously taken on a brisk
elder-brotherly tone -- behave before I get mother to deal with you.

Maquis folds her arms in a weak semblance of stubbornness. Neither does
she try to progress further nor does she retreat.

Grantaire mirrors her stance, looking down at her sternly.

Maquis presents the argument, "Y're mad at me." as though that should be a
reason for him to let her leave.

Grantaire quirks a dark brow at her. "You'll make me madder if you go
kiting off into the street again, the state you're in. Bed." He levels a
finger at it.

Maquis would argue further but talking has made her throat ache. So she
goes and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Grantaire's shoulders sag a little as that crisis is averted. Being
moderately wise in the ways of gamins, he turns to lock the door before he
drops into a chair, wearily.

Maquis sticks out her lower lip in a "foiled again" pout, and she tugs her
legs up to sit indian-style. After a while, she grudgingly mumbles,
"S'ry."

Grantaire raises tired brown eyes. "'S not me you ought to apologize to."

Maquis lifts her knees and wraps her arms around them, nodding a little,
and in doing so her form shakes back and forth a little.

Grantaire's sigh seems to originate in his boots somewhere. Quietly, and
with surprising authority for the R, he says, "I want you to tell him
you're sorry, enfant."

Maquis speaks into her arms, "e's mad a'me, too."

"That's why," Grantaire says patiently.

Maquis says, "'e won wanna talk ta me."