The waitresses of Le Musain being variously absent due to colds, busy mopping up a minor accident in the kitchen or otherwise in ill tempers, there is no one to so much as provide kindling for a fire to heat the infamous back room against the biting cold. Thus, it is that Darcel has taken his hard-procured bottle of wine to the front room for the time being, which is marginally warmer, and anyway as devoid of patrons as the former was of revolutionaries.

Katharine enters the Musain, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She looks tired - her face is pale and there are dark shadows underneath her eyes. She makes her way to a table a few feet from the door and sits.

Darcel, engaged in somewhat boredly tapping his half full glass against his three quarter full bottle, is alerted more by the draught of cold air that the opened door allows in to another's presence than anything else, and grins affably. Silence being best broken, always. Mam'selle."

Katharine looks over and smiles shyly. "M'sieur."

Darcel takes a drink, settling more comfortably in his chair now that talking provides him with something to do. He inclines his head towards the door, indicating outside. "By Diomedes' gnawed off left leg, don't know that it's much better in here, if you're after warmth. Except they have chairs. And food, but I wouldn't be game to ask for that, now. Might /end up/ it."

Katharine smiles again, some vivacity returning to her face. "I had hoped for some warmth, it's true, but I'll settle for tolerable temperatures and conversation."

Darcel grins. "Well mam'selle, unless someone more genial turns up, there's only me. So it's well enough not to be ambitious. Tolerable temperatures /and/ tolerable conversation're a bit much to ask at once. But talk, I've enough of and more than."

Katharine grins.

Darcel grins idly back and swallows another drink of wine. "I'm Darcel Grantaire. Or at least, I am until I'm disowned, dishonoured or otherwise stripped of the unremarkably undistinguished plebian appellation."

Katharine nods. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Katharine Daubreil."

Darcel inclines his head, still grinning. "Charmed, delighted, pleased, mam'selle, however the etiquette of the moment might go. Haven't kicked chivalry to see if the old consumptive has anything new to offer in the way of fripperies in a while."

Katharine brushes a stray piece of hair from her face then sighs. She sits in silence, her brows furrowed as if she were thinking hard. A few minutes pass, then the brows unfurrow. She takes a deep breath and then stares at Darcel. "Perhaps, m'sieur, you can give me the answer to a perplexing question. Why is it that all gentlemen of your age can be such... idiots."

Darcel blinks up in surprise, and chuckles, softly. "Well, now, mam'selle. Same reason anyone is; humanity's natural condition is idiocy, from Adam eating the bit of apple Eve left rotting for three days in the hovel through to we cultured fools of the 19th century ordering food in places with more dirt than soup. Besides, we have to hang on to 'young and stupid' until we can switch to 'old and deranged.'"

The door swings open again, admitting a windblown Enjolras. He looks better than he has in some days, if a trifle paler than ordinary still. "Hello," absent-mindedly, as he scuffs the slush from his shoes.

Katharine looks over as the door opens. "Bonjour, m'sieur."

Darcel's smile broadens as his glance shifts from the girl who'd had the misfortune to be the audience to his rhetoric to the door and he raises his glass again. "Marcelin. Look like you've plucked out most of the plague arrows, thank God. Feeling better?"

Enjolras blinks at the girl, failing to make sense of her presence, and glances to Darcel with a measure of relief. "Much, thank you."

Darcel nods, pleased. "Good. Though I think they're trying to freeze us in here. Think something they were trying to pass off as edible exploded back there, and they're still trying to clean it up." He chuckles, dryly. "Speaking of which, sit down, brother. Last time there was a waitress in here, she nearly hauled me off to the guillotine for standing in the doorway. Brandishing a spoon, too. Isn't worth the argument. Oh- this's Mam'selle- Daubreil?"

Katharine smiles shyly at the newcomer. "Pleased to meet you, m'sieur."

Enjolras inclines his head politely, if coolly. "Mademoiselle. Are you waiting for someone?"

Darcel glances mildly from one to the other, shrugs and refills his glass, which is beginning to tend towards empty.

"No, m'sieur. I just came to escape from my house for awhile."

"I see." Enjolras regards her a moment. "I think you'd probably find the other room more comfortable. It gets quite cold back here."

Darcel inclines his head towards the door, ruefully. "Is warmer, a bit. Got to be brave enough to face the hallway, though. Between the harpies, the furies and the procession of mops, makes the trek to Hades look like a jaunt in the park. Not brave enough for it, myself."

Katharine glances warily at the door. "It seems a bit crowded in there, m'sieur. And I'm not so cold now."

Darcel looks between them again, with mingled sympathy for the girl and heartfelt relief that it's not him being yelled at. A long pause and he offers, very softly and diffidently: "Marcelin. Does it matter so much, just now?"

Katharine flushes a bit under Enjolras's gaze. "I was planning to sit in a corner and keep to myself. You won't know I am there."

It is difficult to argue with maidenly modesty. He glances at Grantaire a moment, searchingly, then shrugs, letting it go. "Very well." And crosses to a vacant seat, setting the everpresent handful of papers down on the table.

Darcel grins like a man caught between a couple of duelists who have suddenly discovered that neither of their pistols are loaded. "Well, so much for negotiations." He swallows a mouthful of wine and squints. "But not the paperwork, it'd seem. 'Course, there's a never ending fount of that. Couldn't afford the fountain of youth, s we've that, instead. What's this lot on?"

Katharine takes a breath, feeling oddly as if she has won a battle. She smiles tentatively at Darcel then finds a quiet corner.

Enjolras glances over, vaguely bemused. "The usual."

Darcel shakes his head, ruefully. "By the crumbling foundations of Plato's acadamy, brother, don't know how you do it. Whole damn lot makes me so dizzy I can't tell which way my head's spinning." He turns his head towards Katharine again and smiles, offering with belated off hand courtesy: "D'you want a drink, mam'selle?"

Katharine muses over the offer. Deciding to throw caution to the winds, she says, "I believe I would, m'sieur. Thank you."

Enjolras blinks. Twice. And flicks a look of distinctly less esteem at the girl before turning his attention back to his papers.

Darcel pours wine into a spare glass and moves across the room to present it to the girl with an amused flourish: "Mam'selle" and trundles easily back to his seat, pausing only to touch the statue on the shoulder, face lit by a mildly teasing grin. "Isn't hemlock, Marc- though I imagine Socrates said different things when he was drinking it. It's only- ah, never mind." He drops back into his chair, idly curling his fingers around his own glass.

Katharine takes a small sip, making a small grimace at the taste.

"I should hope not," Enjolras says dryly. He stares at the papers a moment, then turns, glancing to the vacant chair across from Grantaire with a look of polite query. "Do you mind--?"

Darcel glances and Katharine, wryly. "Sorry, mam'selle. If you want something that doesn't taste like vinegar- well, don't suggest you try, because it'll probably taste like acid." His eyes brighten and he tilts his head to one side. "'Course I don't, brother."

"It's alright, m'sieur," Katharine grins ruefully. "I have had worse."

Enjolras and his paperwork take a seat accordingly, though he frowns faintly.

Darcel chuckles. "So've I, mam'selle. Can always get worse. Bacchus' daughters're a plain lot, mostly. Old fellow only manages to marry 'em off because he gets their husbands drunk." His eyes flick back to Enjolras. "I'm sorry."

"You'd better apologize to her parents," Enjolras says, but mildly, and under his breath.

Katharine laughs quietly. She takes another small sip then starts fiddling with the glass rim.

Darcel chuckles behind his glass and remarks, somewhere between a continued apology and amusement "Come now, Marc. Doubt she'll be any worse for wear. Glass of wine'd be hard put to make an ant totter."

"It's the principle," Enjolras murmurs.

Katharine tires of fiddling with the glass rim. She glances briefly at Darcel and Enjolras then settles down in her chair. A sudden chill passes through her and she pulls her shawl a little tighter across her shoulders and starts comptemplating the wine's color.

Darcel brushes hair out of his eyes, bright with mirth. "Which principle'd that be, brother? I must've missed the one about not sharing the wine." A moment's contemplation and he holds up his hands. "Ah, hell, what do I know? Not a damn thing, except that I don't. Which'd be wisdom or philosophy, if it wasn't the simple truth. Shouldn't tease."

Enjolras shakes his head slightly, riffling through his papers. "You're doing it again."

Darcel blinks over his glass. "Doing what?"

Katharine takes a sip then sighs quietly. She mulls over Darcel's explanation of the idiocy of men. Reasonable though it was, she wasn't quite satisfied.

Enjolras says patiently, "You know more than you'll admit."

Darcel drains his glass and sets it down on the table, firmly. "I know all sorts of things. I know where you can buy wine that won't kill you and where you can't. I know who the brats of Echidna were and who had to do the job of chopping off their heads since they hadn't guillotines. I know which year it was that Caesar turned into a pin cushion. But I don't know /anything/, brother. Anything that matters. That's the distinction." He reaches for the bottle again.

Katharine glances curiously at Darcel and Enjolras then turns her head before Enjolras can glare at her.

"I merely don't think," Enjolras says, sticking with mild-mannered tenacity to his point, "that a young girl -- however out of place --" he has the grace to look vaguely embarrassed at this, "should be treated as one of your drinking companions."

Darcel pauses with his hand on the bottle and thrums his fingers against the glass. "Only offered the girl a glass" he mumbles penitently. "Wasn't trying to deck her out in withered grape vines and send her off to live with the maenads. Hell. You're probably right. Usually are."

Katharine takes another sip and shifts slightly in her seat. She thinks that it would be nice to continue her conversation with Darcel but makes no move to do so. If not later tonight, then perhaps some other time.

Enjolras makes a wry face, which makes him look, all at once, very young. "I am hardly an expert on propriety." He flips through the papers in his hands, studying them blankly.

Darcel removes his hand from the bottle and reaches out to brush the statue's sleeve affectionately. "More than I am, brother, God knows. I'm sorry. Didn't mean any harm." He flicks another apologetic grin in the direction of the girl. "Won't again. Promise."

Katharine grins mischievously as she imagines her mother's reaction if she should find out where her errant daughter had been spending time tonight.

Enjolras shrugs awkwardly, not quite looking up. "So. How goes it?"

Darcel's expression shifts slightly to a grin of amusement. "Happened that when the water got to knee height it started dripping through the floor on my landlady's head. So it got fixed before I drowned. Pity. I was waiting for the Sirens to take up residence. And only about half the books in there got lost in the deluge, so I'm probably not any more ignorant than I was last week." A lingering trace of concern enters his voice. "You're sure you're all right, now? Looked like you could've given Thanatos a heart attack, a few days ago."

Katharine absently takes a larger sip of her wine and is surprised to find its taste does not seem quite so displeasing. She blinks as she starts to feel a little light-headed. The feeling is not unpleasant.

Enjolras shakes his head a trifle impatiently. "I'm perfectly fine." His eyes flick to Katharine again, not so much disapproving as -- discomfited? "Thank you."

Darcel squints at him for a moment, to discern whether that's an Enjolraic 'perfectly fine,' which could be anywhere between euphoric and half dead or an ordinary one. A nod and he smiles. "Good, Marcelin. Long as you are. Not something to prolong, by all the festering swamps of Hades. Worried me." He turns his head to the girl and enquires, lightly. "You managing, mam'selle? Not to play the hypocrite- never was much good as an actor- but you don't want to drink to get sick." His smile turns wry in recollection. "Believe you me."

Katharine smiles at Darcel, her eyes a little too bright. "I'm doing alright, m'sieur. A little light-headed but very much relaxed."

Enjolras' eyebrows lift slightly, but he says nothing.

Darcel laughs, softly. "By the ravings of Cheiron and the wisdom of Typhon, that's the point, I suppose. Long as you don't end walking into lamp posts."

She grins. "I'll do my best not to do so."

Enjolras pays marked attention to his paperwork.

Darcel nods peacably. "All in all, knocks on the head from embraces with city-trees'll give you a headache whether you had one from the wine or not." He reaches for the bottle again and shakes his head. "Isn't so bad, mon ami. If we're all of us going to hell over a little wine, God damn well needs a better hobby than prying at us."

Katharine takes a larger sip of her and enjoys the tingling sensation trickling down her throat.

"I didn't say anything," Enjolras objects, quietly.

Darcel grins, gently. "No, brother, you didn't. But I know you a little, anyway."

Katharine starts to feel a little flushed and she removed her shawl and placed it on the table. She glances curiously at Darcel and Enjolras again then looks away. However, her eyes keep turning back to gaze at Enjolras.

Enjolras glances up at him ruefully. "Yes, I suppose you do, at that." He looks back at his papers. "It's none of my business."

Darcel pours himself another glass and shrugs. "That hasn't a damned thing to do with it. Besides, it isn't my business, either. It's my father's. It's just my wine. Don't want to offend you with it, Marc, that's all, because it's-" he lifts the glass and examines its contents for a moment before drinking "-nothing. Nothing at all."

The more Katharine stares at Enjolras, the more she notices his strong resemblance to a Greek statue of Apollo. In her wine-induced haze, he radiates sheer perfection.

Enjolras blinks across the table, momentarily confused. "--I'm not /offended/. Concerned, yes."

Darcel takes another drink and rubs at his cheek with one hand. "Conerned? Only gave the girl a glass" he protests apologetically. "Couldn't much hurt, by Bacchus' squashed grapes and broken head." And he glances furtively towards Katherine again.

Katharine nervously fidgets with a strand of hair. What to do? What to say? Dare she approach Apollo and bask in his light? Should she stay and content herself with furtive glances?

"Probably not," Enjolras admits.

Darcel nods cautiously. "Besides, mon ami, wine's just a fog and they're not permanent." A pause. "Unless you're in London, I suppose. But this isn't English wine." He shakes his head. "That doesn't make one damn bit of sense. All I mean is, no one ever died just of a foggy head."

Katharine fails to notice that she has abandoned all sense of propriety and is staring at Enjolras as if he were the second coming. She could not think why she hadn't noticed his piercing eyes or his classical face.

"Yes, I know." A touch impatiently.

Darcel half bows his head. "I'm sorry, that's all." And concentrates on filling his already three-quarter full glass to a level that requires steadier hands than he could generally claim to have.

Katharine takes a deep breath (and a sip for good measure) and stands up cautiously. She does her best to appear casual but does not entirely succeed.

Enjolras flicks another brief, wary glance in the girl's direction before turning his attention back to his papers.

Darcel turns at the movement and grins affably at the girl. His eyes drift back to his wine glass and he whistles beneath his breath to cut through the quiet a little.

Katharine returns Darcel's smile as she tentatively approaches Enjolras. She forgets to blink as she cajoles her tipsy wits to come together. She clears her throat. "Forgive me for intruding, m'sieur but I...I was just curious about what you were working on."

Enjolras looks up sharply, startled, and frowns a bit. "Notes, that's all. Mademoiselle," he adds after a second.

Darcel breaks his whistling to append lightly "Students' stone of Sisyphus, mam'selle. They found out they can break camels' backs with straws, so they're out to see if a little paper and ink'll serve as well for scholars."

Katharine is hardly fazed by Enjolras's curt answer. She smiles distractedly at Darcel then turns her attention to Enjolras. Her common sense gives up and goes home for the night as she utters with passion, "Oh, Apollo, I have come to worship at your feet!"

Enjolras stares at her. The pages slip to the tabletop, unheeded. There is a moment of excruciating silence; then he pushes back his chair and stands abruptly, cheeks burning, for once utterly speechless.

Darcel chokes on his wine as he puts the glass to his lips, serendipitously covering what might have been a startled gasp, but was just as likely to be badly stifled laughter with a fit of spluttering. Half recovered and gasping he staggers upright to extend a cautious hand to grip his friend's arm. Three gasps later he manages, hoarsely. "Now, mam'selle. Might've been filling your head with the pantheon all evening, but we're decidedly Gauls, so if you want to pray, it should probably be to an oak tree." And more kindly as his breath returns to him. "Should sit down a bit, mam'selle. This stuf'll turn your head upside down on your shoulders, if you're not used to it."

Katharine stares wildy at Enjolras, hardly hearing Darcel. "Oak trees...pantheons...wherever I must go to experience your light. She kneels heavily on the floor next to Enjolras's chair. She sways a little bit but remains up right. Her unblinking eyes stare into his.

"For God's sake!" Enjolras jerks free of Grantaire's grasp, and kicks the chair backward so as to move away without tripping over her.

Darcel puts a hand over his eyes for a second, mirth at the sheer absurdity of the situation at war with a strong sense of guilt. "For God's sake" he echoes in a murmur to no one in particular. "My fault. Can't even-" He drops on his knees beside the girl, tolerably steady by comparison. "Now, mam'selle. Hell of a way to strike up a conversation, I'll grant you, but not much good if you want to keep it going. People don't like to be called gods, I've learned that much." A tad wry. "Gods eat their brats and knock people down with oversized toothpicks that they call lightning bolts. Not so flattering as all that." He extends a hand. "Shouldn't've given you- but get up and I'll get you some water and you can go home and- God knows, your head won't spin as long as you might like it to."

Katharine turns her head to look at him and almost topples over. To regain her balance, she sends her hand backwards. Unfortunately for Enjolras, she grabs on to his knee. "Water? Do you think I should have some?"

Enjolras steadies himself on the back of the chair to keep from being dragged to the floor along with them. His face set, he reaches down to take her ungently by the shoulder and haul her to her feet.

Darcel turns his face upward, startled as the girl is abruptly elevated above his head. He opens his mouth, shuts it again and finally manages: "Probably, mam'selle."

Katharine squeaks as she is uncerimoniously brought to her feet. She puts a hand to her head dazedly. "I..well...whatever you think is best." Her head starts to spin rapidly.

"Sit down," Enjolras says icily, "and compose yourself, if you please, mademoiselle. Unless you intend to go home in this disgraceful state."

Darcel flinches, though the remarks aren't directed at him. "God- not so hard, Marcelin." Still kneeling, with his head bent, like a man waiting for the executioner's axe. "My fault, 'course, not hers. Always is. Know that. I'll- get her some water."

Katharine sinks into a chair, her recent burst of energy and passion giving way to exhaustion.

"Why? Did you bring her here? No, don't bother, I'll see to it." Which would be more generous of him if it wasn't plain that he wants to get away from her.

Darcel looks up at him with an expression of impossibly mingled relief and amusement and compassion. "No, no- that'd be some bloody schoolgirl Fate who finished her tapestries early and decided to weave a farce to pass the weary millennia- All right, then, all right. Suppose I'll play Cerberus here, then." And he hauls himself over to sit beside the befogged mademoiselle in proper watchdog form. "You all right, then, mam'selle?"

Katharine raises her head and looks at Darcel. She blinks a few times. "I believe so. I feel a little tired and dizzy. But I am fine. I think."

"I thought not," Enjolras murmurs, and goes out.

"Ah, that's what you get for letting the maenads take you dancing. They've no sense of rythem and like to run in circles." He grins. "But you don't usually regret the dance steps, 'cause you don't remember 'em. That's the fun of it. Sorry, mam'selle. Should've said you weren't used to the stuff."

Katharine laughs and nearly looses her balance. To steady herself, she puts her hand on Darcel's arm. "No, don't be sorry. I didn't expect it to be that strong. Or the dance to be that wild."

Darcel grins. "Steady, now. It's less fun if you end sleeping on your nose." He pats her shoulder and shakes his head. "Don't think anybody did; or ever does. Bacchus isn't so very inventive a god for mortal predicaments, but he makes up for it by making you too fuzzy to notice the deja vu."

Katharine nods carefully. She blushes as she begins to realize exactly what she said to Enjolras. "I've embarrased myself thoroughly, haven't I?"

Enjolras returns just then, sets a glass of water down in front of Katharine without looking at her, collects his papers, says "Good night" shortly to Grantaire, and starts for the door.

Darcel chuckles. "By Briseis' luggage, misplaced somewhere between one tent and the next, no. Not quite. Hardly any witnesses, you see, and I'm not likely to make much of a story of it. Should probably apologise to Marc, though; it's the daughters of Bacchus' fault, but they've always dashed off and left by the time you've got to talk your neck out of the noose, so /they're/ not likely to. And all they leave for a parting gift's a damned headache. Bloody Greeks. Always breaking their own laws of hospitality. And-" He glances up. "Ah- Good night, then, mon ami."

Katharine bites her lip and calls out to the departing Enjolras, "Please forgive me, m'sieur. It will not happen again."

"That is reassuring," Enjolras says dryly. With a polite (if stiff) nod, he departs.

Darcel raises a hand in farewell, which immediately falls over his eyes in a gesture of mirth or bemusement or perhaps both. "Mon Dieu."

Darcel pulls the hand away from his eyes and blinks at her "Eh? Oh, divine lords of Tartarus, 'course not." He grins amiably and nudges the waterglass towards her. "Just drink your water'n don't try to get up 'til your head's clearer, or you'll find yourself thanking the floorboards for catching you when you fall down. And that's another thing that's no fun."

Katharine smiles wryly. "Yes, I suppose I ought to." She blushes again when she realizes she still has her hand on Darcel's shoulder. She removes her hand and takes slow sips of the water.

Darcel reaches for his own glass which, naturally, is still holding wine, not water and, misunderstanding the reason for he blushing, nudges her shoulder. "Ah, don't fret over it, mam'selle. Odds are, you won't remember half of it, by tomorrow. And Marcelin'll work off his discomfort tearing through the street like something shot out of a cannon, and me- well, ending's too predictable to be worth making a story of it, so there won't be anything to blush over, in a bit. Life's just a delusion and drinking's pretending you understand it for an hour or two. But none of it lasts."

Katharine is intently staring at the water and taking a few sips every now and then. She jumps as Darcel nudges her. "What do you mean, "ending's too predictable?"

Darcel gestures randomly as he puts his glass to his lips. "Old sort of story; wine and damsels fluttering eyelashes. Not worth the bother." He grins, broadly. "Have to bring in a full singing chorus, a horde of dancers and probably a divine manifestation or two" other than the obvious, but he's not using that one "to keep a cafe crowd's attention on it, mam'selle."

Katharine shakes her head. "I don't know if it's the wine but... I don't think I understood a word you said."

Darcel shakes his head ruefully. "Probably not, mam'selle. Most people don't. It doesn't matter."

"You think so?" He picks up his glass again and raises it in an idle toast. "To errors and confusions of curiosity; worrying about the conundrum at the front while everything worthwhile's falling out the back and shattering." A shrug. "Most things don't, mam'selle."

Katharine carefully raises her glass. "If you say so." She sets the glass down and dips a finger into the water. "I still don't understand and I'd like to. Something must matter."

"Oh /something/ does" he admits easily enough, drawing one leg up so his heel is propped on the edge of his chair and his knee makes a sort of coaster. "It's working out /what/ that's likely to give you more of a headache than all the maenads and the bloody waitress screeching at you over what you owe for the wine all at once. Sometimes" he casts a fond look at the door through which Enjolras departed "the sorting's worth it. But mostly" his eyes flick back to the girl and he raises his glass from his knee to salute her with it "you're better off just nodding and hoping it isn't in the bloody exam they give you to get into hell."

Katharine shakes her head. "You've got a point there. But hell? Surely you don't believe that you're going to hell?"

Darcel tilts his head and smiles wryly. "Can't say that I believe I'm going anywhere, mam'selle. Except home, probably, when I finish this bottle."

Katharine whimpers. "Home. Oh God. How am I going to going to sneak in without getting caught?"

Darcel blinks at her slowly. "Going to knock your head against trouble, mam'selle? I suppose climbing through windows's out. Got a back door, or something?"

Katharine nods. "Yes, the window's out." She thinks. "Ah yes. There is a back door, though I shall have to navigate hedges, gardens, and whatever else my idiot sister has left lying about."

"Well, there you are then." He puts the glass to his lips again. "Price of a night out's a sore head and a few scrapes from the bushes. Everything costs too much, nowadays."

"Yes." Katharine finishes her water. "I suppose there's a lesson to be learned in that - if I was a mood to absorb such a lesson."

Darcel chuckles. "Ah, mam'selle, there's a lesson to be learned in everything, no doubt, if the gods're as dour as the clergy'd like us to believe. The trick is to avoid learning most of 'em, or where's the fun in playing truant?"

Katharine smiles and sighs regretfully. "I hate to end our delightful conversation but I should probably go before the real Apollo walks through the door and I insult him."

Darcel tilts back his head and laughs. "Pan's off-key pipes and the lyre Hermes mistrung! Marc may look the part, mam'selle, but I think you'd have other difficulties if it was Loxias himself." He points at the ground. "Likely to end up rooted to the floor and in need of pruning and watering. You all right getting home?"

Katharine blushes. She asks shyly, "I don't suppose you could walk me home?"

"Long as you don't live in London, mam'selle." He finishes his drink in one swallow. "If only the pure of heart can walk on water, I'd be having conversations with the bloody Atlanteans, and I bet they didn't like Plato's book." One laborious heave and he's on his feet and offers her a hand up. "Between us we've probably got one person worth of balance."

Katharine smiles delightedly and accepts his hand. She carefully stands up, forgetting to let go of his hand. "Thank you, m'sieur."

Darcel blinks at her. "Bah, I'm all sorts of unsavoury appellations, but never 'm'sieur.'" On a bottle of wine, he's foggy, yes, but it's a long way to proper inebration, so he puts a steading hand on her shoulder and moves for the door. "But you'd better have enough head to steer, mam'selle, 'cause last I heard, if you wanted to be able to pick a girl's address by the colour of her hair, you'd have to ask my friend Courfeyrac, and he's not about."

Katharine blushes as she and Darcel carefully go through the door. "I'm sorry - what would you prefer me to call you?"

Darcel shrugs, pausing once they're out into the street so she can give directions. "Ah, now, mam'selle; doesn't matter much. I'm Grantaire, or Darcel, or Capital R, or-" he grins. "You There, if it comes down to it."

Katharine takes a few steps in the direction of her house then stops. She swallows nervously. "God, I can't go home like this! How will I... what do I..."

Darcel frowns, confusedly. He's walked intoxicated females to their doors to prevent then from falling under carriages before- then again, some of them might have been making sure /he/ didn't fall under a carriage for at least part of his way home- and usually without much panic. Nevertheless, the girl's obviously upset, so he squeezes her shoulder. "Now, mam'selle, what's fretting you? If people disowned their brats for having a glass or two, I'd be ostracised from the whole bloody country by now. Generally takes something more along the lines of calling you father names and insulting you mother's politics. Or the other way around, if you like."

Katharine shudders. "The yelling. The shouting. And that's if I bribe my sister to wait until I've changed my clothes to announce that I came home late."

Darcel nudges her, mildly. "Ah, now, as bad as all that? Well, most things are, when you strip away the paint someone threw over the top. Even that only makes 'em smell of wet paint, and that's not pleasant at all. Sorry; shouldn't've given you the damn wine."

Katharine shakes her head determinedly. "No. I should have known better than to drink it so fast."

Darcel grins faintly and shrugs. "Ah, well, by the blood under the fingernails of Pelops' third cousin twice removed, there's always more people to blame than can find an answer to the problem. Anyway- no good standing about in the street."

"No," Katharine replies wryly. "Not unless you want to argue about whose fault it really is." She looks in the direction of her house but does not move. "I don't want to go home."

"Could guess that, mam'selle. By the rate at which we're getting there, if mathematics think they can delve into philosophy and come up with a formula for sentiment." The irony is not unkind. It isn't as though he has anything better to do. "And I wouldn't put anything past numbers. Come on, then- just walk in any direction, while you sort yourself out."

Katharine blushes. "You're too kind, Darcel." She smiles at him and starts walking.

Darcel snorts affably and ambles after her. "Bah- just don't suggest you avoid the matter by sleeping in a gutter. Does nothing for the neck." And quite likely to get you killed or robbed, or down with a case of pneumonia, but he's only joking, so that goes unmentioned.

Katharine laughs quietly. "I don't think I've ever been tempted to sleep in the gutters nor would I want to. I hope you *don't* make a habit of sleeping in gutters."

Darcel grins. "Mam'selle, I don't make habits. People're creatures of habit: sometime in antiquity, God put a bloody shovel in Adam's hands, gave him wrinkles and told him he could take Sunday off. So people got into the habit of working and dying and doing all sorts of horrible things. But I don't. One of these days, Zeus and Allah and anybody else up there tossing their three thousand year old bulk around'll look down and have me thrown out of humanity for incompetence. But that doesn't much matter, because I've never wanted to work anyway. As to gutters-" he grins. "'Course not. Told you: they're bloody uncomfortable."

Katharine smiles at him. "That's good to hear. I'd hate to think that someone as poetic as you would sleep in the gutter."

Darcel squints at her, then shakes his head. "Ah well, there's time enough left for that, cherie."

Katharine shakes her head bemusedly. "You say the strangest things. It's rather refreshing." She continues to walk aimlessly.

"Most people" he chuckles "call it bloody confusing."

She grins. "I think we've established that I'm not most people."

Darcel spreads his hands expansively. "Ah, but, mam'selle, everybody's most people. And nobody is. It all depends on the way you look at it."

She tilts her head. "True." And shivers suddenly as the cold night gets to her.

"Is it?" For a moment it looks like he might argue the relevence of truth, purely for the sake of it, then he frowns, pulls off his coat and offers it to her, with a dry chuckle and a parody of a courtly flourish. "Not much good hovering about out here though, either."

Katharine accepts the coat and looks up at him. "Thank you." She puts it on and wraps her arms around herself. "Yes. But where...?"

Darcel shakes his head. "Mam'selle, if /that's/ all you're worried about- how in hell're you going to explain where you've been tomorrow?"

Katharine shrugs. "I... well... I'll think of something. I walked all night or I ran into a friend of mine." Logic is everywhere but in her mind at this point.

Darcel pauses and leans against a building, with what ought to be a long suffering sigh, and would be, if not for the tinge of mirth in it. "Logic, God help us, the last battered card in the pack, and odds are it fell out of your sleeve and you've already played it twice." He tilts his head against the facade and grins at her. "Point is, cherie, is that going to make it better or worse?"

Katharine blinks while she tries to make sense of Darcel's ramblings. Having sorted it out, she replies, "Better. I won't be so tipsy in the morning now, would I?"

Darcel shakes his head, amusement growing. "That's entirely debatable; depends whether you like your acumen brewed in fog or fried in a headache." He laughs, stands up straight and catches her arm, lightly. "Oh, come on, then. I'll sleep on the bloody floor."

Katharine blushes. "You're entirely too kind. Thank you. Again. Lead on."

Darcel only shakes his head again, inexplicably amused, and, after casting about a moment to find his bearings, turns towards home.



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