merryeccentricities (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
merryeccentricities) wrote2015-01-20 11:35 pm
merryeccentricities) wrote2015-01-20 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Hello, There's Been An Error
Joly gets a few bursts of static, some mention of the Directory and Consulate, and "Fifth", and Courfeyrac, before the call goes definitely silent.
So...Bossuet and Courfeyrac are going to the Republic, of some point, and..Fifth? Or they're going to THE Fifth? Or, given how drunk they obviously are, they're going to GET a fifth, or had one, and then...
then "the Labyrinth", which might be taking them anywhere, never mind where they think they're going.
No, Joly isn't about to sit around waiting for them to get back. He sets the watch-hand for 2. "Combeferre? We had talked about exploring the Labyrinth? I think we might have to plan to do that right now."
So...Bossuet and Courfeyrac are going to the Republic, of some point, and..Fifth? Or they're going to THE Fifth? Or, given how drunk they obviously are, they're going to GET a fifth, or had one, and then...
then "the Labyrinth", which might be taking them anywhere, never mind where they think they're going.
No, Joly isn't about to sit around waiting for them to get back. He sets the watch-hand for 2. "Combeferre? We had talked about exploring the Labyrinth? I think we might have to plan to do that right now."
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She looks past Joly at Combeferre, and her eyes widen. "And you--oh, I think it's so nice that the next generation know each other. I know whose family you must be, it's written all over your face. The distinguished M. Combeferre himself, a scientist and a statesman, and he used to come here! You can see for yourself." She points to her right, where there is a row of pictures on the wall: the Corinthe's most famous patrons. The pictures are photographs, not portraits. Not the slick colored photographs he saw in the Milliways books, but sepia-toned and faded.
Combeferre leans forward and sees his own face. He looks much the same, maybe a bit thinner and more haggard, but grinning. Next to him is Enjolras, smiling faintly.
"Yes," says Matelote, grinning. "He came here often. Not anymore, he's a very busy man now! As you must know. Is he your--father, or...?"
"Er," says Combeferre. "He's my uncle."
He's staring distractedly at the wall. A busy man, a scientist, a statesman--a live man, with a live Enjolras and a live Joly, in a world with airships.
This is not the history of their world. In their world, Paris did not have airships in Matelote's lifetime, or within any time that could possibly have been his own lifetime. This is a wholly different world, a different universe, and that makes it hurt less.
Still.
His silence starts to grow heavy. He searches for a way to lighten the mood, thinking up a question his curious "nephew" might ask. "We've heard such stories about what our uncles got up to in their youth," Combeferre says, smiling. "I suppose you know Bossuet, too, then?"
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"Legle." Joly says it in recognition, not in answer. He's staring at a photograph at a far end of the wall, older than some of the others, slightly spotted. Bossuet is there, not staring at the camera for a portrait but looking up at Joly and Musichetta, both of them sharply dressed and falling over each other into Bossuet's lap, all three of them laughing and looking impossibly happy.
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"Oh," is all he can say. He puts a hand on Joly's shoulder.
"Oh, yes, of course! L'aigle!" Matelote laughs. "He was a cheeky one, he was. Of course I remember him. He and M. Joly and M. Grantaire, they'd come in together all the time, and drink their weight in wine. It was Joly who paid, though. His friends never had much money on them, especially not that aigle."
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It occurs to him after he asks that perhaps it wasn't a wedding after all, it doesn't have to have been a wedding party-- but he knows it was, as much as he knew this building was the Corinthe. The soul of the thing, in both cases, is obvious.
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"They look very happy," Combeferre says gently. And in a way, isn't this good news? To know that there is a world where this happened? He searches for a way to convey this to Joly, without having Matelote think he's a madman. "It's good to see proof of such happiness--to know that it's real, at least for some people."
Against his will, Combeferre's eyes stray back to the picture of himself and Enjolras, a few years older. A scientist and a statesman, Matelote had said. Combeferre didn't want fame, but to know he'd made a contribution to science--that he would have made a contribution to science--no. Not would, did, in this world. In this world it's a thing that happened, and that is, in its own bizarre way, a happy thought.
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And then he starts giggling. It soon turns into full laughter, as it often does with him, and then he iscrying , too, and still laughing, and then that turns into hiccups, and he's having to hold himself up with one hand on the café counter and one arm over Combeferre's shoulders, trying to talk past giggles and his own treacherous hiccups.
"You-!- you make us sound so far gone-!"
...Well, they are dead, of course. But somehow thinking of that only makes Joly want to start in laughing again. He manages to fight it down to a smile. He lifts his hand off that count to wave at the Corinthe in general. "We made it-!- made it here, didn't we? " And their old Corinthe being this lovely little café is almost as much a testament to resurrection as their own presence. Though Joly has no idea how to say that in front of Matelote.
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We are, he doesn't say. After all, is Milliways even a real place? An actual world? Or just--a holding cell, of sorts?
"Yes, we did," he says, with determined brightness. He turns back to Matelote, still bracing Joly up with one arm.
"I suppose this place must have changed a great deal! Our uncles described it...very differently." For one thing, Combeferre would eat the food here with no worries for his health.
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"Oh,yes-- of course it was very different before the Revolution. And even for a while after! I'm sure they've told you everything about that. We had to rebuild the whole place after that, and the street was so busy for a while, you know-- we were already becoming famous--that Mother Hucheloup decided we might as well try for a decent sort of memorial building, and we were still putting things all together when the first water lines came through, and don't think I don't know who made sure they came down our little street so soon--"
Matelote goes on,with increasing enthusiasm as she sees Joly and Combeferre truly listening. She's developed a café manager's feel for conversation, and is defintiely tailoring the news for what they might be interested in, news of their "uncles'" friends, political discussion-- but then, Matelote did always work in the Cornithe, and she helped build the barricade in their world, so maybe that's less for their benefit than it seems.
There's certainly enough on that score, anyway-- the memories of lights and running water being put in, the fights over the airship stations, the official recognition of the right of the people to assemble freely and speak freely, the invention of the freezers, politics and science as important to a café owner as to any citizen-- and on and on.
And running through all of it, familiar names, M. Enjolras leading this and Courfeyrac quarrleing with that delgation, M. Combeferre inventing that little filtration system, anyone who wondered what the government needed a Science department for would have to fight with the survivors of 32 over that,hah, and oh! that very public debate over women's suffrage that had run for over a year in the journals, why it had nearly looked like some of the old group were going to come to blows over that but then Bahorel always found that entertaining, didn't he, and oh!, that immigration group M.Feuilly had started right here almost before the new Republic was fully recognized, and the parties when M. Prouvaire's first few novels had been released--
It's almost thirty years of news, delivered in increasingly interrupted exchanges as the café becomes busier. When Joly finally tries to pay-- though who knows if their world's money is worth anything anymore-- Matelote waves a hand at him. "Oh, don't you dare. You just tell your uncles they need to stop by, it's been too long since their last visit."
Joly agrees, sincerely, that it has been much too long, and excuses himself to step outside for a moment on account of the increasingly restless cats.
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He sees Joly standing before a stone wall not far off, with a small brass square affixed to it that blazes with reflected sunlight. Joly's not the only one there. Others are milling about and looking.
Combeferre walks up to Joly's side, and looks at the spot on the wall Joly is staring at.
And well he might stare. Vivent les peuples, say the letters carved into the stone.
The brass square helpfully informs visitors that this wall is now a monument to Feuilly. And the Amis, and everyone who fought in the Revolution of 1832--but Feuilly in particular.
"Well," says Combeferre. "At least in this world, people know to honor him."
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It's a vague little plaque, as such things tend to be, heavy on lauding everyone's bravery and short on details-- but it's there, and that alone says a great deal. Joly can't stop smiling, and if he's crying a little too, well, that's all right.
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He imagines telling all their friends everything they've learned. He suddenly wants desperately to go back to the Corinthe and demand more. But no, Matelote would think he'd lost his head, and regardless, perhaps it would be better not to ask for too many details. It's enough to know that they succeeded, lived, were happy, and that France was free.
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"Do you want to try to find a library? Look for more details about what happened?" He smiles as an idea strikes. "We could see what you're credited with inventing here; it must be in the records."
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