It is a warm night in Paris. The streets are bustling with assorted combinations of friends, family and lovers eager to take advantage of the weather. The Cafe Musain itself is crowded, but not overly so. The air is jovial - the customers are cheerful and the waitresses are energetic.
Darcel sits both apart and amidst the revelry; there is no Enjolras and therefore no fear of rebuke for his absurdities, so he passes the time calling for fresh glasses when he finds his empty and bantering with the serving girls who set them before him.
Michel Joly walks briskly down the Place Saint Michel. His face brightens as he nears the entrance to the Musain. He enters and looks around. Spotting Darcel, he waves. "Bonjour!"
Darcel squints affably up at the new arrival. "Well, if it isn't the republic's very own walking plague. Shall I call for the posies or the tissues, first, or just another drink and find another reason to fall down?" He casts a severe look at an unknown young gentlemen attempting to procure the spare chair at his table for use elsewhere and, having rid himself of interference, hooks a foot around it and shoves it out. "Sit down, mon ami. How goes?"
Joly blanches. "Walking plague? Do I look ill? Oh no!" He sneezes then gets a hold of himself. He smiles in thanks and sinks down into the chair. "Good, good," He replies, "Though 'Chetta and Bousset are having an argument. When it got loud, I came here. And how are you?"
Darcel chuckles ironically, but pats his friend on the arm by way of reassurance, then spreads his hands philosophically. "Domestic bliss eternal, eh, Asclepius? Composed as it is of bickering, squabbling and misplacing the bread knives." He shrugs. "I- well, the world spins on and I work on being the first to get properly dizzy."
"Oh, Grantaire," Joly smiles. "I'm glad to see that you're your usual chipper self." He sneezes again and fumbles absentmindedly for a handkerchief.
Finding his handkerchief, he makes use of it then tucks it up his sleeve. "It's always something with those two. They'll be fine once they shout it out." He shudders slightly. "I hope."
Darcel grins. "Glad to see you're still perishing of something you couldn't possibly have unless you were an elephant. Some things don't change. And those that do just put on a new necktie and hope you don't notice it's the same suit." He tilts his head. "'Course. That's how battles are, you know. Once half the street's dead from the banging and crashing and musket fire, the instigators get to go and pick the spoils from their pockets."
Joly wrinkles his nose. "And they pick up vile diseases, too, I shouldn't wonder."
Darcel shakes his head. "Right, right, got to make sure there're enough moving corpses to keep the quacks employed finishing 'em off- you can probably get hold of someone long enough to get a drink, if you're quick."
Joly sputters for a few moments.
Darcel elbows him, cheerfully. "Breathe, mon ami, or your lungs'll run off and join the royalists. I was joking."
Joly takes a few deep breaths. "I'm alright, I think." He smiles, his indignation forgotten. "So, how's the wine tonight?"
Darcel picks up his glass and studies the contents, critically. "Somewhere between vinegar flavoured with salt and lemon juice and something that one of you medical students brought home to rot on your desk for a week before distilling it." He swallows a mouthful. "Which is good, considering what it was like last week."
Joly winces. "That bad, eh? Ah well, I read somewhere that it clears the sinuses." He motions the waitress over and orders a glass.
Darcel tilts his head. "Well, if you read it, it must be true. I read somewhere that if you pull a sword out of a stone, some old fellow in a robe sticks a crown on your head. Then, a thousand years later, they take it off and your head as well. God knows, it's every bit as likely."
Joly laughs and takes a sip. His face does a series of contortions as the vile liquid invades his throat.
Once he has recovered, he asks, "Have you seen any of the other Amis lately? I missed the last meeting because my tongue was a funny shade. 'Chetta thought I should stay home and rest." He is serious.
Darcel sips from his glass again, without so much as a grimace and gestures vaguely. "Oh, they've all been in and out of here, today- all but you and Laigle, that is. Like a damn Greek play; can't have more'n two people on stage at a time. Combeferre looking for Enjolras, Bahorel looking for someone's nose to break, our noble patron god of the republic looking for Combeferre, Jehan looking for Aeschylus- I bloody well hope he meant a book, Feuilly looking for- I didn't ask; Poland probably. Courfeyrac's the only one who stayed about for a drink and as you see-" he gestures around "-by now all the actors've gone, the play is done and the audience is fighting over who gets to steal the rubber swords."
Joly chuckles. "You have such a way of words about you! If Jehan ever decides to throw down the pen, you'd be a perfect replacement for him."
Darcel does grimace, then, though not at the wine. "Slander, m'sieur. If I had to talk in verse, I'd take a vow of silence, which might please our gracious captain, but'd make ordering another glass a hell of a lot harder."
Joly takes a sip of his wine and manages not to wrinkle his face. "Enjolras is pleased by nothing less than perfection. How 'ferre can put up with him sometimes, I'll never know."
Darcel shrugs wryly, looking down at his hands. "Enjolras, God knows, gets what he's pleased by, or leads everyone a merry chase trying, anyway- so it's a damn good thing he is what he is. As for the latter, you'll have to ask The Scholar himself."
"True." Joly shifts in his chair. "I've got an exam tomorrow. I should probably go home and see if the Sparrow and the Eagle have settled down yet." He does not look particularly anxious to move, however.
Darcel slouches back in his chair, looking up with a grin. "Nature being what it is, I'd bet the Eagle's pinned to a wall by now having its liver munched on in return for the go it had at Prometheus. Hell hath no fury like a grisette that can't get her own way and all that- if you've an exam looming overhead, the best advice I could give'd be to stay put 'til it blows over. You studious fellows'll do as you think best, though, 'course."
Joly nods, a little too eagerly. "I'm sure Bousset will find me when it's safe to come home. 'Chetta is a wild one, that's for sure." He grins. "Part of her charm, 'course, but still..."
Darcel lifts his glass cheerfully. "What you get. There's a flaw in everything. They said Spartan women were the prettiest, but they could also break your neck before you could offer 'em a drink. Doesn't much matter, as long as you don't mind being bullied."
Joly raises his glass. "Shall we make a toast to Spartan women then? Fair of face and strong as a bull. Just as stubborn, at any rate."
Darcel laughs and puts the glass to his lips. "As you like. Spartans, Amazons, that rare breed, the virtuous damsel- and anyone else as likely to knock our teeth out as offer a kiss."
Joly drinks a good deal of his wine then sniffs experimentally. "I believe my nose is clearing up," he says, soundly slightly fuzzy.
Darcel chuckles and peers at him. "That or the rest of you's getting blurrier, so it doesn't make much difference."
Joly leans back in his chair, a contented look upon his face. "I can feel my chest clearing out." He glances at Darcel. "Didn't someone once say something about the healing power of the grape? Or was that you?"
Darcel raises an eyebrow. "D'you expect me to remember everything I didn't say? Or even that I did. God knows, people'll look on anything as a panacea. People thought flogging themselves'd cure them of the black death; ancients thought cutting holes in people's heads'd let out the evil spirits- damned if I know how why they didn't think it'd let 'em in, too- Hippocrates said absinthe'd cure jaundice; good taste, that fellow, even if he was wrong. Still- you're the doctor-in-training. If you say it's medicine, not poison, I'll take your word for it."
Joly nods slowly, so as to avoid flopping out of his chair. "It is. I'm sure of it."
Darcel lifts his glass again in salute. "Well then, may your theory stand until everyone's too drunk to contradict it anyway, m'sieur le medicin."
Joly raises his glass. "I'll gladly toast to that!"
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