"This is Not the Man I Knew..."
Jan. 9th, 2005 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneChapter Four of Picture Portrait. Joly's chapter. He may prove to have been one of the most difficult, so for heaven's sake give me feedback! *whores like crazy mad*
~~~Chapter Four: The Brave Geraint~~~
Well.
Curious.
Enjolras, in disarray. Enjolras, fallen to pieces. Enjolras, a touch cold, a good deal imploring, like a spoilt child who truly is unhappy for the first time; Enjolras, wanting to escape, wanting to be alone, wanting to be quiet, admitting to failure, admitting to faults, speaking of debts.
It was quite curious how in only a few words it would become apparent that he was human, and, at the same time, that he did not consider himself to be so.
There was no mistaking the tone, the demands--no, Enjolras thought he had conducted himself as he always did, or else he thought that Joly respected him to such an extent that there was no fear of having their conversation relayed, even between the Amis. I am like a private physician, thought Joly, with a slight smile. I am like the King's physician. "He is ill, but it must never go beyond this room". Like a state secret. No, Enjolras believed that Joly would never tell anyone, but he more than believed it, he expected it. He took it for a fact.
Indeed, that was how it was. Joly shifted a little beneath his gigantic coat and smiled again, palely. He had no intention of telling anyone. He was going to write Andre a nice letter mentioning that one of his friends in Paris was ill and recovering from a nervous fever, that he needed lots of good food, of rest, of quiet, of seclusion, and if Andre wouldn't mind boarding him for a few weeks, he, Daniel, would be very glad to forget the debt of thirty francs Andre owed him from the last time he visited and was soundly beaten at cards. He would make it a smiling letter, a laughing letter, with a little touch of seriousness to it, so that Andre understood it was important. It would be an excellent letter, and then Enjolras would vanish for some time, and the others would conjecture as to his whereabouts, and Joly would privately smile. Then Enjolras would return, with his own explanations and excuses, and things would resume exactly as they had been before the departure.
And yet-- "I shall be in your debt," said Joly, aloud to himself. He was sitting with Combeferre and Bossuet as they read schoolbooks and marked down things for essays, but he was neglecting his work. They glanced up at him briefly, laughed, went back to their papers. 'I shall be in your debt'.
He had always rather wondered what it was like to do a favour for a King. His mother told him bedtime stories of Gods and Goddesses when his father wasn't listening, and told him of how they were powerful rulers who commanded the world and interfered with it, but a clever mortal might take something of theirs or do them a service, and then--then there were rewards, or trades, or benefits, knowledge gained, or secrets, or, if things were foolishly or badly managed, punishments and curses. He remembered her writing him into those stories when he grew old enough to want to be the clever boy who made his fortune through aiding Aphrodite or stealing Hermes' winged sandals.
He had rendered a service, now, but was there to be a reward? No, Enjolras was not a God, not a well-intentioned Aries nor an Apollo concerned with war. He was assuredly not Zeus. Perhaps he was most like Athena, but in a way he couldn't be as awe-inspiring as Joly had always known she must be. Enjolras was not a God.
Still, he was more than a man.
So Joly made him a King, made him a ruler, made him important without his being too important. And this was proper.
Did the King give a reward for a secret well-kept, for a deed well-done? For a man who helped him escape from his castle and go into hiding in a time of war? Or, because he was a King, did he know he need not do anything, really, for no one would object?
Joly shook himself. Although he was quite afraid of catching cold, because it always took him a very long time to get well again and was uncomfortable and gave him a cough that would stay for months, his coat was heavy. He was a very small man, unnaturally thin and rather short, and the damned thing weighed on his shoulders.
"L'aigle," he said suddenly, prodding his companion gently.
"Mmm?"
"What do you honestly think of the temperature? Honestly?"
"Honestly? I think, ma belle, that it is a cool evening, but I do believe that if you were to remove your overcoat, I should be able to put my jacket about your shoulders, and that would prevent any chill." Bossuet met his eyes as he spoke, and said it all perfectly seriously. "That it what I honestly think."
"Merci." That was what Joly had always found marvellous about Bossuet. He would not laugh as the Others did. Perhaps he was as sceptical and amused as any of them, but he wouldn't show it. He just answered the question, or helped Joly forget about whatever miserable situation they were in (once, a year ago, they had endured a horrible night in the snow when they forgot to engage lodgings on their return from their families' houses for Christmas, and had nowhere to spend the night, and spent hours knocking on the doors of lodging-houses, only to be turned down because they only meant to stay a single night or to find everyone sleeping and unwilling to answer the door; on that night, Bossuet had smiled, produced a bottle of brandy from his carpet-bag, made them a temporary shelter on the front step of their favourite café, and made Joly laugh all night long, quite forgetting that the next day he would be unable to move from bed). He seemed to mean things. Joly thought it wonderful. Musichetta could not entirely tolerate him, and at times she refused to speak to him, but Bossuet always understood that he was afraid of sickness.
He unbuttoned the giant black greatcoat and folded it, making himself some several sizes smaller, and much lighter, and remarkably cooler. Bossuet laughed and took off his jacket, draping it over Joly, who pulled it close. He had taken off the scarf, as well, and noticed that the persistent itching on the back of his neck was gone.
"Well, Joly," said Bossuet, stretching. "What did Enjolras have to say to you, that he drew you away from us into private audience?"
"Just a question," Joly returned without a pause.
"He questioned you! What did he want to know? I'm intrigued."
"A pressing question regarding my schedule."
"Your schedule!"
"Yes, he wished to know if I was free to tack some inflammatory pamphlets to the doors of unsuspecting persons on Thursday, or whether I had an exam in my History class that day."
Bossuet burst out laughing, feelingly, stretching his fingers and wrists like a cat splaying its toes. "Aha! A good answer."
"It was, wasn't it?" Joly smiled to himself, and shivered. "You are certain that I'll be warm enough, aren't you?"
"My beautiful one, I am. I will bet a good bottle of wine on it, or, if you prefer, two cheeses, small-sized, or a good pair of pince-nez spectacles, a well-written essay on social conditions, a volume of lavishly illustrated and gloomy poetry, or a glass butter dish with salt and pepper cellars, depending entirely on your preferences. If to-morrow you are ill, I will gladly forfeit the item of your choice."
"I'd take the cheese, Daniel," said Combeferre, looking up for a moment.
"Are the tableware new?" Joly asked.
"Antiques from my great-great-aunt. A gift to my mother for her wedding, passed to me because she was hoping they'd get broken." Bossuet smiled apologetically and spread his big hands wide.
Joly looked at his own hands and sighed lightly. Bossuet had always called him 'belle', ever since they had met three years ago in a doctor's establishment. Bossuet had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken his arm and bloodied his face, and Joly had wanted to consult the doctor because he had a funny swelling in patches on his knees, which turned out to be because he had burnt himself a little when he used very hot water to wash himself after a mongrel dog leapt up on him. They stood in the anteroom together, having come in at the same time, and Bossuet laughed and joked about his accident while insisting that Joly was too beautiful to have anything wrong with him. Beautiful. He did not say handsome, which Joly had always noticed. He was beautiful. He was like a sister to Bossuet, but a sister who was--not. Half a sister. To some extend it confused him, but partly pleased him, and he had never dissuaded Bossuet.
Bossuet believed him. None of the Others ever had. They laughed uproariously at his worries and his illnesses, and though it wasn't quite cruel laughter, it wasn't quite good humour. It frightened Joly. If something turned out to be more serious than he had thought, if he complained about a slight dizziness and they dismissed it with amusement, how would they believe him if it were to develop into something quite bad? If he were to faint, to be unable to rise? Would they continue laughing? It rose a panic in his throat. He might die and they would not realise it until almost the moment of his death, because he so frequently had inconsequential sicknesses. But Bossuet would not allow that to happen to him.
There were, he had come to realise, only a few good men in the Others. There was Bossuet, who did not actually count as one of Them, and there was Combeferre, who was quite gentle with everyone, and perhaps Enjolras could be included as well, for he was a fair King, if cold. But Feuilly despised everyone; Bahorel was big and rough-cut and awkward, a hot-headed fool who never let anyone be; Prouvaire was melodramatic, flourishing, begged for attention, and attacked the Others in an underhanded way, by looking close to tears when they were short with him, which affected almost everyone but Feuilly and Grantaire; Courfeyrac was a princely fop who laughed loudest at Joly and made light of everything of any importance; but Grantaire--Grantaire was the worst.
Grantaire was angry and revolting, always smelling of wine and brandy and vomit and filth, always shouting crude slurred words at everything and making himself embarrassing to the point Joly felt sick being in the same room with him. What was worse, however, was that Bossuet pretended to like him. He smiled, that innocent, incongruous smile, shrugged, said, "Well, every man needs a companion", and with a bottle or two of something or other went to sit in the corner with Grantaire, drinking and pondering the length which a famous whore's ankle protruded beneath her skirt, or the money needed to buy all the wine in France, taking into consideration different prices for every sort and every maker. Bossuet said that Grantaire longed to be talked to seriously by someone. Joly remembered that upon hearing this for the first time, he had said something cruel and sharp about Grantaire's talking seriously with his absinthe faeries, in that case, and locking himself in his room.
But he had come out shyly by the end of the day, and Bossuet had readily forgiven him, insisting that it was all right, but Grantaire really could not be expected to spend every day alone, for-ever, with everyone acutely disgusted by him. It was not a fair kind of life for a man, and if Grantaire could never have an occupation, a family, or friends, he might at least have a drinking partner who didn't hate him.
After that, Joly did not say anything about Grantaire, but that did not stop him from hating him, and feeling distinctly and disconcerting jealous when Bossuet spent the evening in his company instead of Joly's.
At any rate, Joly had come to the conclusion that the Others were mainly intolerable, and he would have stopped coming to Musain in a moment were it not that Bossuet liked to stay there and talk with Them, and that he did honestly believe that Enjolras could do some good with his ideas. Bossuet smiled sometimes at the talk of revolution and reformation, but Joly felt his face flush and his lips part absently as he watched, intently, Enjolras making speeches or proclaiming ideas or giving Them tracts which he had written. Yes, Enjolras was a King, a dramatic ruler, a King concerned with his people and ready to help them. It entranced Joly.
And yet-- And yet--
Not enough that he couldn't help thinking, even now--he had seen the King with his guard down. He had seen the King afflicted and begging for solitude. He--the King was in his debt. That was where he ceased to think of Enjolras reverently. What did it mean to be in the debt of a King? Was there something to be gained? Was there a favour he had earned?
Tiny, shrunken Joly, who dieted severely because he understood it to preserve life, who had vivid blue eyes of a remarkable sensibility that one often did not see because he hid his face with scarves or hats to keep the sun away or tinted spectacles to protect himself from viruses which might enter through the eyes, who had the best of intentions if only he could sort them out from his own slightly self-important worries, was not an exceptionally clever man, but he was intelligent. He was not particularly amazing, but he devoted himself earnestly to the people he decided he cared for. He could not captivate anyone with his speech, but the people who considered him a friend knew he was a good one. He was a plain man, a good one. He had never before had a secret which might earn him something, and he did not know what to do with it.
"So, ma belle, wither did'st thou wander to-day? I heard tell on the staircases that you were in the wrong class."
Joly laughed. "I went up into the wrong lecture-room, yes. I missed my Histories course but heard an exciting treatise on Theology."
"Indeed? Well, I expect Theology is easier to make sensational than History, since it causes more disputes and brawls."
"That's debatable," said Combeferre, his voice quite amused.
"I bet you the same objects I offered Daniel a moment ago that there have been more fights over Theology than History."
"I'll take the cheeses."
"You would do much better to take the pince-nez, Combeferre," Joly advised, buttoning Bossuet's jacket up the front unconsciously and mistaking several tears for button-holes as he did so. "L'aigle always has the best in that line. He gets them as heirlooms, and the pawnshops will pay rather handsomely for them."
"But I don't want the pince-nez; I want the cheese." Combeferre laughed.
"Quite fair," said Bossuet. "Quite fair."
"He hasn't warned you yet that it will be aged cheese."
"That improves the flavour, beautiful one." Bossuet smiled at Joly, shifted comfortably in his chair, and picked up his pen. "After we've finished this, shall we all three go out for supper and a drink together?"
"Is it warm enough to sit in an outdoor café? Indoors, the smoke chokes me."
"It is warm enough. Combeferre will lend you his jacket, too, and if worst comes to worse you can give them both back and put on your overcoat again."
Joly turned his head a little to one side, realised that this was Bossuet's usual good advice, and that he would enjoy going out to supper to no small degree. He decided, absently, that he would leave the secret for a while. There was no need for it at the moment. He took his own pen and opened his Medical textbook again, and Bossuet yawned and stretched like a tiger, making a bet with Combeferre on the best restaurant close by.
Well.
Curious.
Enjolras, in disarray. Enjolras, fallen to pieces. Enjolras, a touch cold, a good deal imploring, like a spoilt child who truly is unhappy for the first time; Enjolras, wanting to escape, wanting to be alone, wanting to be quiet, admitting to failure, admitting to faults, speaking of debts.
It was quite curious how in only a few words it would become apparent that he was human, and, at the same time, that he did not consider himself to be so.
There was no mistaking the tone, the demands--no, Enjolras thought he had conducted himself as he always did, or else he thought that Joly respected him to such an extent that there was no fear of having their conversation relayed, even between the Amis. I am like a private physician, thought Joly, with a slight smile. I am like the King's physician. "He is ill, but it must never go beyond this room". Like a state secret. No, Enjolras believed that Joly would never tell anyone, but he more than believed it, he expected it. He took it for a fact.
Indeed, that was how it was. Joly shifted a little beneath his gigantic coat and smiled again, palely. He had no intention of telling anyone. He was going to write Andre a nice letter mentioning that one of his friends in Paris was ill and recovering from a nervous fever, that he needed lots of good food, of rest, of quiet, of seclusion, and if Andre wouldn't mind boarding him for a few weeks, he, Daniel, would be very glad to forget the debt of thirty francs Andre owed him from the last time he visited and was soundly beaten at cards. He would make it a smiling letter, a laughing letter, with a little touch of seriousness to it, so that Andre understood it was important. It would be an excellent letter, and then Enjolras would vanish for some time, and the others would conjecture as to his whereabouts, and Joly would privately smile. Then Enjolras would return, with his own explanations and excuses, and things would resume exactly as they had been before the departure.
And yet-- "I shall be in your debt," said Joly, aloud to himself. He was sitting with Combeferre and Bossuet as they read schoolbooks and marked down things for essays, but he was neglecting his work. They glanced up at him briefly, laughed, went back to their papers. 'I shall be in your debt'.
He had always rather wondered what it was like to do a favour for a King. His mother told him bedtime stories of Gods and Goddesses when his father wasn't listening, and told him of how they were powerful rulers who commanded the world and interfered with it, but a clever mortal might take something of theirs or do them a service, and then--then there were rewards, or trades, or benefits, knowledge gained, or secrets, or, if things were foolishly or badly managed, punishments and curses. He remembered her writing him into those stories when he grew old enough to want to be the clever boy who made his fortune through aiding Aphrodite or stealing Hermes' winged sandals.
He had rendered a service, now, but was there to be a reward? No, Enjolras was not a God, not a well-intentioned Aries nor an Apollo concerned with war. He was assuredly not Zeus. Perhaps he was most like Athena, but in a way he couldn't be as awe-inspiring as Joly had always known she must be. Enjolras was not a God.
Still, he was more than a man.
So Joly made him a King, made him a ruler, made him important without his being too important. And this was proper.
Did the King give a reward for a secret well-kept, for a deed well-done? For a man who helped him escape from his castle and go into hiding in a time of war? Or, because he was a King, did he know he need not do anything, really, for no one would object?
Joly shook himself. Although he was quite afraid of catching cold, because it always took him a very long time to get well again and was uncomfortable and gave him a cough that would stay for months, his coat was heavy. He was a very small man, unnaturally thin and rather short, and the damned thing weighed on his shoulders.
"L'aigle," he said suddenly, prodding his companion gently.
"Mmm?"
"What do you honestly think of the temperature? Honestly?"
"Honestly? I think, ma belle, that it is a cool evening, but I do believe that if you were to remove your overcoat, I should be able to put my jacket about your shoulders, and that would prevent any chill." Bossuet met his eyes as he spoke, and said it all perfectly seriously. "That it what I honestly think."
"Merci." That was what Joly had always found marvellous about Bossuet. He would not laugh as the Others did. Perhaps he was as sceptical and amused as any of them, but he wouldn't show it. He just answered the question, or helped Joly forget about whatever miserable situation they were in (once, a year ago, they had endured a horrible night in the snow when they forgot to engage lodgings on their return from their families' houses for Christmas, and had nowhere to spend the night, and spent hours knocking on the doors of lodging-houses, only to be turned down because they only meant to stay a single night or to find everyone sleeping and unwilling to answer the door; on that night, Bossuet had smiled, produced a bottle of brandy from his carpet-bag, made them a temporary shelter on the front step of their favourite café, and made Joly laugh all night long, quite forgetting that the next day he would be unable to move from bed). He seemed to mean things. Joly thought it wonderful. Musichetta could not entirely tolerate him, and at times she refused to speak to him, but Bossuet always understood that he was afraid of sickness.
He unbuttoned the giant black greatcoat and folded it, making himself some several sizes smaller, and much lighter, and remarkably cooler. Bossuet laughed and took off his jacket, draping it over Joly, who pulled it close. He had taken off the scarf, as well, and noticed that the persistent itching on the back of his neck was gone.
"Well, Joly," said Bossuet, stretching. "What did Enjolras have to say to you, that he drew you away from us into private audience?"
"Just a question," Joly returned without a pause.
"He questioned you! What did he want to know? I'm intrigued."
"A pressing question regarding my schedule."
"Your schedule!"
"Yes, he wished to know if I was free to tack some inflammatory pamphlets to the doors of unsuspecting persons on Thursday, or whether I had an exam in my History class that day."
Bossuet burst out laughing, feelingly, stretching his fingers and wrists like a cat splaying its toes. "Aha! A good answer."
"It was, wasn't it?" Joly smiled to himself, and shivered. "You are certain that I'll be warm enough, aren't you?"
"My beautiful one, I am. I will bet a good bottle of wine on it, or, if you prefer, two cheeses, small-sized, or a good pair of pince-nez spectacles, a well-written essay on social conditions, a volume of lavishly illustrated and gloomy poetry, or a glass butter dish with salt and pepper cellars, depending entirely on your preferences. If to-morrow you are ill, I will gladly forfeit the item of your choice."
"I'd take the cheese, Daniel," said Combeferre, looking up for a moment.
"Are the tableware new?" Joly asked.
"Antiques from my great-great-aunt. A gift to my mother for her wedding, passed to me because she was hoping they'd get broken." Bossuet smiled apologetically and spread his big hands wide.
Joly looked at his own hands and sighed lightly. Bossuet had always called him 'belle', ever since they had met three years ago in a doctor's establishment. Bossuet had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken his arm and bloodied his face, and Joly had wanted to consult the doctor because he had a funny swelling in patches on his knees, which turned out to be because he had burnt himself a little when he used very hot water to wash himself after a mongrel dog leapt up on him. They stood in the anteroom together, having come in at the same time, and Bossuet laughed and joked about his accident while insisting that Joly was too beautiful to have anything wrong with him. Beautiful. He did not say handsome, which Joly had always noticed. He was beautiful. He was like a sister to Bossuet, but a sister who was--not. Half a sister. To some extend it confused him, but partly pleased him, and he had never dissuaded Bossuet.
Bossuet believed him. None of the Others ever had. They laughed uproariously at his worries and his illnesses, and though it wasn't quite cruel laughter, it wasn't quite good humour. It frightened Joly. If something turned out to be more serious than he had thought, if he complained about a slight dizziness and they dismissed it with amusement, how would they believe him if it were to develop into something quite bad? If he were to faint, to be unable to rise? Would they continue laughing? It rose a panic in his throat. He might die and they would not realise it until almost the moment of his death, because he so frequently had inconsequential sicknesses. But Bossuet would not allow that to happen to him.
There were, he had come to realise, only a few good men in the Others. There was Bossuet, who did not actually count as one of Them, and there was Combeferre, who was quite gentle with everyone, and perhaps Enjolras could be included as well, for he was a fair King, if cold. But Feuilly despised everyone; Bahorel was big and rough-cut and awkward, a hot-headed fool who never let anyone be; Prouvaire was melodramatic, flourishing, begged for attention, and attacked the Others in an underhanded way, by looking close to tears when they were short with him, which affected almost everyone but Feuilly and Grantaire; Courfeyrac was a princely fop who laughed loudest at Joly and made light of everything of any importance; but Grantaire--Grantaire was the worst.
Grantaire was angry and revolting, always smelling of wine and brandy and vomit and filth, always shouting crude slurred words at everything and making himself embarrassing to the point Joly felt sick being in the same room with him. What was worse, however, was that Bossuet pretended to like him. He smiled, that innocent, incongruous smile, shrugged, said, "Well, every man needs a companion", and with a bottle or two of something or other went to sit in the corner with Grantaire, drinking and pondering the length which a famous whore's ankle protruded beneath her skirt, or the money needed to buy all the wine in France, taking into consideration different prices for every sort and every maker. Bossuet said that Grantaire longed to be talked to seriously by someone. Joly remembered that upon hearing this for the first time, he had said something cruel and sharp about Grantaire's talking seriously with his absinthe faeries, in that case, and locking himself in his room.
But he had come out shyly by the end of the day, and Bossuet had readily forgiven him, insisting that it was all right, but Grantaire really could not be expected to spend every day alone, for-ever, with everyone acutely disgusted by him. It was not a fair kind of life for a man, and if Grantaire could never have an occupation, a family, or friends, he might at least have a drinking partner who didn't hate him.
After that, Joly did not say anything about Grantaire, but that did not stop him from hating him, and feeling distinctly and disconcerting jealous when Bossuet spent the evening in his company instead of Joly's.
At any rate, Joly had come to the conclusion that the Others were mainly intolerable, and he would have stopped coming to Musain in a moment were it not that Bossuet liked to stay there and talk with Them, and that he did honestly believe that Enjolras could do some good with his ideas. Bossuet smiled sometimes at the talk of revolution and reformation, but Joly felt his face flush and his lips part absently as he watched, intently, Enjolras making speeches or proclaiming ideas or giving Them tracts which he had written. Yes, Enjolras was a King, a dramatic ruler, a King concerned with his people and ready to help them. It entranced Joly.
And yet-- And yet--
Not enough that he couldn't help thinking, even now--he had seen the King with his guard down. He had seen the King afflicted and begging for solitude. He--the King was in his debt. That was where he ceased to think of Enjolras reverently. What did it mean to be in the debt of a King? Was there something to be gained? Was there a favour he had earned?
Tiny, shrunken Joly, who dieted severely because he understood it to preserve life, who had vivid blue eyes of a remarkable sensibility that one often did not see because he hid his face with scarves or hats to keep the sun away or tinted spectacles to protect himself from viruses which might enter through the eyes, who had the best of intentions if only he could sort them out from his own slightly self-important worries, was not an exceptionally clever man, but he was intelligent. He was not particularly amazing, but he devoted himself earnestly to the people he decided he cared for. He could not captivate anyone with his speech, but the people who considered him a friend knew he was a good one. He was a plain man, a good one. He had never before had a secret which might earn him something, and he did not know what to do with it.
"So, ma belle, wither did'st thou wander to-day? I heard tell on the staircases that you were in the wrong class."
Joly laughed. "I went up into the wrong lecture-room, yes. I missed my Histories course but heard an exciting treatise on Theology."
"Indeed? Well, I expect Theology is easier to make sensational than History, since it causes more disputes and brawls."
"That's debatable," said Combeferre, his voice quite amused.
"I bet you the same objects I offered Daniel a moment ago that there have been more fights over Theology than History."
"I'll take the cheeses."
"You would do much better to take the pince-nez, Combeferre," Joly advised, buttoning Bossuet's jacket up the front unconsciously and mistaking several tears for button-holes as he did so. "L'aigle always has the best in that line. He gets them as heirlooms, and the pawnshops will pay rather handsomely for them."
"But I don't want the pince-nez; I want the cheese." Combeferre laughed.
"Quite fair," said Bossuet. "Quite fair."
"He hasn't warned you yet that it will be aged cheese."
"That improves the flavour, beautiful one." Bossuet smiled at Joly, shifted comfortably in his chair, and picked up his pen. "After we've finished this, shall we all three go out for supper and a drink together?"
"Is it warm enough to sit in an outdoor café? Indoors, the smoke chokes me."
"It is warm enough. Combeferre will lend you his jacket, too, and if worst comes to worse you can give them both back and put on your overcoat again."
Joly turned his head a little to one side, realised that this was Bossuet's usual good advice, and that he would enjoy going out to supper to no small degree. He decided, absently, that he would leave the secret for a while. There was no need for it at the moment. He took his own pen and opened his Medical textbook again, and Bossuet yawned and stretched like a tiger, making a bet with Combeferre on the best restaurant close by.
