milliways_bar | Twelfth Night Party, Pontmercy style!

You -- yes, you, whoever you are -- got an invitation to the party. All of Milliways is welcome!

If you choose to come, you'll find Bar directing you to a big round tent that went up this afternoon on the lawn outside the bar. Marius and Cosette and various friends spent a lot of time this morning ferrying decorations in, and the waitrats spent a lot of time in the afternoon ferrying food in, but the doors won't officially open until close to sunset.

But this isn't a cheap white plastic tent, oh no. It's warm and domed and made of thick fabric, something like a very large yurt. A bit of magic keeps out the drafts, making everything extra cozy.

There's a fire in the middle of the floor, with a low screen encircling it but also magic meaning that this fire puts of warmth but will not actually burn anything, even if you step right into it. The floor is wood -- great for dancing, if you feel like it! There's a piano over against the wall for anyone who wants to make some music.

Everywhere there are garlands of European evergreen branches and herbs, studded with bright dried fruit and sparkling ornaments. (Mistletoe might very well be among them, though the Pontmercies haven't thought to supply that as an intentional party game.) There are candles and lanterns everywhere, and a big chandelier. There are no electric lights at all -- it's all fire -- but a good number of them are magical, so that nothing's going to get set on fire or covered with smoke. The general intended impression is of genteel, welcoming festivity, in a very French and very early 19th century European way.

There are food and drinks galore. Come in and enjoy the party!

[OOC: Party-style post! Subthreads for various categories and activities, etc. Open from now until whenever!

Edit: As of Joly's arrival, Cosette now has a mini-polaroid camera. Fear, Milliways. Feel free to assume that she's popped up to take a candid picture of your character(s) at any point, as long as they're not doing or wearing anything scandalous! She will happily give the resulting picture to your character if they want; it probably won't be a very good picture, in terms of composition or focus, but it will be cheerfully enthusiastic.]

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Enjolras remembers hers, but that's mostly because remembering names has been a useful life skill for him to cultivate. And hers, if it's not exactly a usual name, is much more French and thus easy to remember than some of the strange names around Milliways.

"Good evening, madame."

Okay, apparently they're small talking. (He wasn't actually aiming to just bow and move on, but he wouldn't have been at all averse to it. But he doesn't mind some chatting, either, especially with a countrywoman, at this party, with the ties she has.)

"I am, indeed. Your daughter and her husband are excellent hosts."

Enjolras may overlook and dismiss the domestic side of life to a large degree, but there is at least enough overlap between community organization and event planning for him to have an idea of how much work went into this, even if it's work he personally would direct towards other ends.

Fantine smiles then, a full smile of real pleasure. It is the look she gets any time someone compliments Cosette.

"Yes, they made it so lovely--and unlike anything I've seen here. It reminds me of home." She casts a glance at the decorations and the candles.

Enjolras follows her glance to the room, with his own smile. It's smaller, with a quiet and private bittersweetness, but real pleasure too. And it, too, is more real than anything she's seen from him yet in their brief acquaintance.

"Yes. It's good to have a taste of France here."

Fantine nods. "It is. I thought this place was heaven, when I first arrived. But I do miss home." She gives a slight grimace, and says, "Well, I don't miss the town I last lived in. But I miss Paris."

Enjolras is not going to ask about the town she last lived in; they hardly know each other, and it's clearly not a pleasant subject, for whatever reason.

(Some of his friends have read Victor Hugo's book, and would have a much clearer idea of what's behind this. Enjolras has read a few of the philosophical digressions, copied out by Bahorel, and beyond that has steered clear.)

But this is one of the few subjects that will bridge the gap of gender roles and polite conversation with a woman of more or less his era. "Yes," is all he says, and quietly, but the sincerity is clear.

"There's nothing like it."

Edited 2017-01-13 04:19 (UTC)

Fantine's face has taken on a dreamy cast and, unbeknownst to her, she's straightened up in her chair. She's not really seeing Enjolras at the moment. She's seeing Paris as it rose up before her on the road, shining in the early morning light, when she traveled from the farm outside Montreuil-sur-Mer to seek her fortune in the big city.

"No," she says. It's hard for her to put into words what she saw that day: possibility, excitement, the future. It ended sadly, but she can't make herself regret it.

She straightens in her chair, her gaze going distant and dreamy, and Enjolras politely drops his gaze to give her space for her moment of reverie.

Besides, he shares it, or at least his own version of it. How could he not? When he looks across the room it's at candles, and garlands, and a crowd swirling and talking and laughing; it's far beyond those people and those lights and those walls.

What he's seeing, until she says or does something to draw him back to polite conversation, is the Parisian night lit by warmth and fire, the dawn beyond, Paris's paving stones and soil beneath his feet, France's air in his lungs and the arched vault of heaven above, a bustle everywhere of people in the streets, people asleep at home, in carts, on foot, in doorways; joyful, anguished, suffering, proud, laughing, frivolous, serious; his brothers and sisters, his fellow citizens, all the children of France, all equal, all free by right, so many enchained by society; work to be done, and Paris the place to do it, and the future before them bright as these candles and lanterns, humanity's hope and striving in the black night of despotism; all Paris, all France, living and real.

He's not there. But Paris is still there, still alive, and if he can only travel there in memory, for a moment he will.

Fantine doesn't know how long she stays silent, thinking of the lost rush and thrill and freedom of the city, the strange Christian forgiveness of an ungodly place where everyone has more important business than you and no one thinks to judge you.

It can't be very long because when she comes back to her surroundings, the man--M. Whatshisname, Bahorel's Quiet Friend (Not Marius Or The One Who Was Shy)--is still there.

She gives a guilty half-smile. She knows it's rude to slip into reverie when talking to someone else, but it's a habit she has never quite conquered.

It takes him a moment to notice, all the same. She hasn't said anything, she hasn't much moved. It was long enough for him to draw back slightly, to give her a little more space, but even if it were far longer, he's not so rude as to leave without a polite word.

But mostly he too has been far away. He still is.

But she does give a guilty half-smile, and her gaze does move back to him. It's enough for him to see, slightly belatedly, and slightly belatedly to pull himself back to the here and now enough to return the look with his own ghost of a rueful smile.

Quietly, he says again: "There's nothing like it."

"No," she repeats, still with a mix of ruefulness and leftover reverie. "Has it been long since you were there last?"

Twelfth Night Party, Pontmercy style!

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