milliways_bar | Happy Hour

"1833, monsieur."

1832 gets a curious look, but she doesn't ask the question that's come to mind. (It wouldn't have, except for Gavroche; plenty of things happened in 1832 besides a June uprising, and she doesn't know that he's dead just yet.)

"Ah." February. For just a moment, he's somewhere else. "Near Carnival time?"

"Why, yes."

She doesn't know him; that moment of distraction might mean nothing. But Cosette's father remains the most fundamental influence on her life and her rapport with others, and the young man she knows best is Marius Pontmercy. A moment's private reverie makes her draw half a step closer in sudden sympathy, just in case; without quite noticing her own reaction, she's moved to chatter and distract.

"It will be merrier later -- it's only the 2nd, it's still quite early in the month -- but there are celebrations already. It's the time for citrus, you know, spring is in sight."

Bahorel is emphatically not Marius. The moment is only a flicker, and then he's back, with a grin. "Then we have twice the holidays to celebrate! Come, Mademoiselle, what shall you have? Citrus can be made to fit either season, depending on if you want punch or something lighter." He gesture to the bar display behind him. "I do believe we have the ingredients for everything here; and it need not even be on fire, though I certainly advise a little flame in this weather."

"Something light, if you please."

But curiosity compels her to ask, on the heels of her request: "You can't mean you're setting drinks on fire? How?"

...Cosette's had a sheltered upbringing, okay.

"Ah, then it is my privilege to introduce the trick! Watch-"

The drink comes together quickly; with a quick touch of the bar lighter, it's soon burning away. "It's quite strong, I should think." Maybe not for him, but this young woman doesn't seem the type to have built up a tolerance. But looks can be deceiving, and he won't stop her if she wants to drink it!

Cosette watches with genuine fascination. She's never seen alcohol lit on fire, especially not with the intention of drinking it after.

But at his words, she darts a quick look of (mild) chagrin up at him. "Then I've had you waste a drink. I'm sorry. I hope it's not too much trouble."

Manners or not, her attention is split between Bahorel and the drink. How does that work? Is it still drinkable now?

"No fear, Mademoiselle, a lesson's never wasted on an interested student, and a drink is rarely wasted in a bar." He puts the flame out with a quick gesture of his hand and takes a sip to prove his point. "And no drink made to burn is ruined by it." He can see the metaphor coming up on that one and shuts it off. "It's a good trick with a Christmas pudding,too, if you're ever holding a party. For now- a lemonade?"

"Is it! I'll have to ask the housekeeper if she knows of such a thing -- or Madame Bar can give a recipe, I'm sure. Perhaps she can explain why the fire catches like that."

She's babbling, and about domestic matters that certainly can't be of interest to a roguish man tending bar with fire and daring waistcoats; she colors a little, and pulls her enthusiasm back in. She'll speak to Bar about it later. "Yes, please, a lemonade would be very nice."

It's obvious that she's silencing herself, and Bahorel cheerfully considers throttling everyone who's ever said that was a good idea. "It's the alcohol, of course -- though if you want to know why alcohol burns, you'll need to ask someone else; I have a few friends who could probably explain it, if Madame Bar comes over terse."

He hands over the lemonade, with a sprig of mint and a straw shaped into curling hearts. Because why would someone not want a fancy straw? "I gather you come by Milliways often-- or else you're adjusting with rare speed."

"Yes," she admits, "that's what I was wondering, monsieur. And if there was a way to set other drinks on fire -- I thought at first you meant any drink at all -- or only strong alcohol."

The hearts of the straw get a slightly doubtful look, though. She knows she's being forward already in chattering with a bartender, unchaperoned, for all that she's engaged and for all that she's argued her father into accepting Madame Bar as a suitable chaperone so long as she stays nearby. Does he mean to flirt? Or is it only that that's what Bar left on hand for him? She doesn't want to give the wrong impression.

"Only recently," she says, "but several times. My father comes here as well, though my fiancé doesn't, but at any rate papa can explain matters, and Madame Bar is lovely as well."

It's not the subtlest mention of an engagement in the world, but it does the trick, and even after weeks Cosette says the word fiancé with unconscious pleasure.

Bahorel laughs, palms out, shaking his head. "Peace, Mademoiselle, peace! The shield's well raised, the shot well-aimed; but I have long since left such tournaments as yours." Disreputable is one thing, but hardly looks as old as his college enrollment.

He snaps his fingers, spins, and comes back with two more heart- bent straws, these tied with a ribbon. (It is, indeed, the only shape Bar has on hand.) "For you and for your fiancé; you for your flattery to an old campaigner, and him for his good sense in choosing such a quick-minded partner." There's a small slip of paper tied onto the straws, ready for a gift tag; he's already signed his own name under 'from'. "And what's his name, that he can be congratulated properly?"

Edited 2014-12-28 10:42 (UTC)

Cosette's piqued, for a moment, by the laughter; but it's good-natured and not mocking. She settles.

She's not quite certain yet if she'll pass on the gift to Marius, but all the same she says, "Pontmercy, monsieur -- Marius Pontmercy."

She glows a little when she says it, still. Cosette is quite obviously in most of her emotions, and certainly in love.

Bahorel was already in a good mood; now he absolutely beams. "Marius Pontmercy? Ah, of course! You said your father comes here too; then you are Mademoiselle Fauchelevent! Congratulations to you both again, and to him especially; I knew your Marius for some years before he met you, and the improvement afterwards was clear; he's done well indeed to ensure it continues."

Oh! Cosette brightens and relaxes all at once.

"Yes, monsieur--" Yes, that's the name on the gift-tag, and now it rings a vague bell. "--Monsieur Bahorel, I'm Cosette Fauchelevent. He has mentioned your name, now that you say."

He never really mentioned more than the name, as far as she can remember, but oh well.

"But it's you who's a flatterer now!" Not that Cosette objects to a little flattery. "I must disagree: he's a silly dear sometimes, but he was dear to me from the first, I refuse to admit to improvement."

If she were teasing Marius to his face, she might take a different line, but teasing Marius behind his back is a different matter.

"Ah, but of necessity, you only knew him since he met you! If you had seen him before, why, you would not wonder that I compliment you." His smile is only fond now, not teasing, for the moment. "You have made him happy, Mademoiselle. You must grant that is an improvement in anyone."

That's not true. She saw him skulking awkwardly around the Luxembourg Gardens for ages! Sometimes with her father's handkerchief!

She ducks her head a little, smiling down at her lemonade. "I must, since he makes me happy as well."

It's strange, talking about Marius with a friend of his -- talking about Marius with someone other than her father or his grandfather or Toussaint. But it's a good kind of strangeness; it warms her heart and pinks her cheeks.

She's adorable, anyway. He can see why someone like Marius would fall for her.

"The best sort of match, then. Do you know, I think he believed he was hiding it from us all when he fell in love; but no man could have been more obvious. Still, he said nothing of you that would let anyone recognize you by sight; indeed, said nothing of you at all. A cautious fellow; I take it he said nothing of us to you, either?"

Cosette's lips twitch at the first description. That sounds entirely like Marius. He probably skulked around them, too, and fled when startled, and generally acted like a defensive rabbit.

She has no doubt whatsoever that he's brave, and loving and brilliant and steadfast, but he's also deeply (and, in her opinion, deeply endearingly) awkward.

"...No," she has to admit, apologetically; "at least, very little. He did say your name, I remember now, but he's never spoken a great deal of most of his friends."

Only someone who grew up with silent nuns and Jean Valjean would say he's spoken a great deal of any of them, but Courfeyrac at least got mentioned more often and in more detail.

And now -- well. Now, Marius murmurs names or disconnected phrases sometimes, but beyond that Cosette doesn't ask; if she does he shivers and clings to her hands and refuses to speak of it, or to speak anything but little endearments for her, murmured almost desperately.

Bahorel would, indeed, recognize all those descriptions of Marius-behavior!

"A cautious fellow" Bahorel repeats. "No harm in that, back home." And a good deal of sense to it, whatever Marius' reasons for being so quiet. "But no harm here in being more open; a peculiar privilege of our current location, news shared here is not likely to return home! And I assure you, those here who know your fiancé wish you both every good fortune, and would welcome any news at all of friends and home."

Cosette hesitates for a moment, thinking, though outwardly she covers it with a warm (and genuine) smile for the well-wishing, and with sitting down to take a sip of her lemonade.

"I'm afraid there's little I can give you of real news, monsieur. I'll tell you what I can, for a countryman and a friend of Marius's, and -- oh! I'm sure I could bring some newspapers if you wished, if Madame Bar can't provide them. But I live a quiet little life. We're to be married in only a few weeks. Papa and Marius's grandfather have been making all the arrangements, everything is a-bustle, but I'm sure it would seem a very small and private bustle to you."

"If you're Marius's friend, perhaps you know that he was -- quite ill." The pause is very slight, easy to overlook; this is a cover story that's become quite familiar, for all that Cosette rarely speaks to strangers outside of Milliways. In a time of recent cholera, not to mention in the 1830s generally, it's an excuse no one will question, and in its way it's true. But no illness ever left saber-scars such as Marius bears. "If so I'm glad to tell you that he's very much improved. The doctor gave permission for a February wedding, you see, he's much better, nearly well."

Bahorel laughs again, more quietly. "Mademoiselle- did I not say there was no need for caution here? I come here from 1832; from June. Your fiancé and I, you might say, faced the same illness; I will not recover, though I am very glad to know he will. You may speak freely of it-- or of anything, for indeed it's the small details that I cannot learn from the papers."

Cosette bites her lip for a moment.

"Are you -- are you dead, then, monsieur? I'm sorry, I didn't like to ask."

But if he's a friend of Marius's... well.

He laughs much more easily about that. "Very much so! Very quick, very sure." He raps his knuckles against his chest, just over his heart. "No apologies, I doubt very much you were the one holding the bayonet!-- and if you were I would have to congratulate you on your thrust."

That was, it must be admitted, not exactly the reaction Cosette was expecting. For a moment she's a little wide-eyed.

And then she laughs, and if it's the bewildered laughter of someone who isn't sure how else to react, there's some merriment in there too. "Well! Well, monsieur, I salute you for your good cheer. The Bible tells us to submit gladly to God's will, but I can't think many would do it with such laughter. I'm still sorry to hear of your death, but I'm glad it doesn't grieve you overmuch. I hope Milliways suits you."

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