Prologue: The Gallery of Portraits
Courfeyrac rose, rather unsteadily, and smiled benevolently at the other Amis, who were crowded about him in a friendly crush, sitting on chairs, on the table or the floor, ready to hear whatever story he was about to relate. Only Enjolras was sitting apart, writing, but if any of them had looked over, they would have caught him off his guard and listening, with a curious, half-tired interest, as though he didn't mind pausing thoughtfully in his work to hear Courfeyrac speak.
It had begun simply enough. Bahorel, who was backwards on a chair, had treated everyone in honour of his twenty-sixth birthday. The six bottles of wine had been divided into eighteen glasses, and he guarded his two carefully, apparently concerned that someone might try to steal them. Courfeyrac had already stolen Enjolras' second, because Enjolras never drank more than one glass a day, and everyone knew that any way.
Now, encouraged by everyone's eyes and Enjolras' second glass, he stood, one hand firmly on the back of his chair, and began his lecture. Jean Prouvaire clasped his hands on his knee and leaned forward attentively.
"You know, mes amis, that there are rules to drunkenness."
"Blasphemy!" cried Grantaire incoherently. He had bought a bottle for himself already and drunk that in addition to his two glasses.
"No, no," said Courfeyrac, still with the benevolent smile. "It's all quite simple. There are different sorts of men in the world, and they have different ways of doing things. There are certain types of men whom one never expects to go out walking for pleasure, and certain others who would never do it unless they had a girl on one arm. Well, the same thinking applies to the drinking of alcohol. For example, I, myself, am permitted to get as thoroughly intoxicated as I please, as long as I make sure to leave regular intervals of sobriety. I may be lightly drunk quite often, because I'm a young rake, but I'm intended to get out of the experiences of youth and go on to become something marvellously dreadful and dried-up, without being held down by having got myself addicted to this stuff. Bahorel is much the same."
"Am I?" said Bahorel. "I have no intention of becoming something marvellously dried-up at any time."
"No, of course not. Bossuet is one of us, too. Then there are men like Combeferre and Feuilly, who aren't permitted to get more than lightly drunk at all, because they're too sensible and too hard-working ever to get themselves quite drunk. We trust them to stay mainly sober. We expect it of them. We need men like them to guide us home when we can't tell the way."
"I believe that's meant to be a compliment of sorts," Combeferre murmured to Feuilly, who was perched cross-legged on the table.
"Evidently," said Feuilly comfortably, lifting his glass.
"And then," Courfeyrac went on, "one has men like little Prouvaire here at my feet, who may not get more than lightly drunk, either, but for them it's because they're too pretty and delicate to do so. It would be rather horrifying to see them very drunk. It would, in fact, really embody 'disgustingly drunk' in a very literal manner. Joly, too, is this sort of man." He stretched out his hand and gestured lazily at Joly, who was looking at him with almost a laugh in his eyes. "Lastly, there are the fellows like Grantaire, and they're a different sort altogether. One cannot imagine them not drunk. If they suddenly reformed, why, the world would suddenly be that much emptier. They were meant to be drunk almost continually, with very occasional, very short times in which they may be sober, although the entire time their companions will be uncomfortable and feel the presence of a stranger. They must be drunk."
Grantaire nodded with a thick sort of dignity. Courfeyrac smiled.
At that moment, Enjolras shifted at his table, and said, coldly quizzical, "And myself, Courfeyrac? What sort of man am I? What do the rules say about me?"
"Oh, you! Well, you, sir, you'll never get drunk. You are the sort of man who makes us all look like fools. You abstain beautifully, never taking more than your single glass, and we all have such faith in you that the world would come crashing down to see you disgrace yourself. No, you're hardly allowed, and that's what the rules say of you. Well! Going by what I've said, Grantaire, myself, Bahorel, and Bossuet all need another glass. I'll do the honours if your generosity is expended, Bahorel."
"Hardly," said Bahorel, sounding wounded. He immediately went out and called for another bottle, while Courfeyrac settled back into his chair.
Enjolras was drawing circles in the corner of his paper with the black pen he'd bought yesterday for the purpose of writing essays, and he seemed quite engrossed in his spirals, but suddenly he said, "Well, Courfeyrac, now that you've dictated how we all are to drink, would it surprise you if we disobeyed you?"
"Disobeyed me?"
"Indeed. Suppose Prouvaire thoroughly inebriated himself. Suppose Grantaire took it into his head to avoid drink for a week." Now he was flicking spots of ink into his circles.
"What a horrid thought! I should be quite disappointed, that's what. I am surprised at you, though, because I believe you've embarrassed poor Prouvaire by singling him out, and you've made Grantaire stare. He hardly expected such a cruel thing to be said by anyone. What right have you to go distressing everyone in this manner, I can't fathom," Courfeyrac said, and he was still smiling and looking around at the others, who looked back expectantly but good-naturedly, anticipating a brief, amusing argument but nothing more.
"What right you have to order them about I can't fathom myself."
"My poor Enjolras!" cried Courfeyrac, with great daring. "You're cheating yourself again! You're taking everything in the world perfectly seriously! Now, of course, you are all free men; you may do exactly as you please. It pleases me to have another glass. Bahorel, has that bloody bottle come yet?"
Everyone laughed, and Bossuet poured another glass for Courfeyrac, and the matter was quite forgotten.
On to Chapter One.
Back to the Index.