Memoirs of Les Amis de l'ABC

Chapter Twenty-Five: An Immodest Proposal

"Do I dream?" a male voice crooned. "Surely this is not real life for Monsieur Courfeyrac has been without the presence of fair Mademoiselle Fauchelevent for seven days at this count."

Courfeyrac snarled at Bahorel's mockery. "Please remember that some of us do not find you as amusing as you find yourself."

The streets were covered with snow and ice leaving a treacherous labyrinth with each step as the men left the school building and headed towards Café Musain for the evening. Lampposts illuminated the darkness that fell as four figures traipsed down the rough roads.

"Come, come, good man," teased Bahorel, draping an arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders. "Come, you cannot hide your lover away so." A flash crossed Enjolras's features almost imperceptibly but no man in the company turned his way to glimpse it. "I daresay the Café Musain was better for having a feminine touch."

Courfeyrac felt a fire roar at the man's careless banter. For though he knew Bahorel's comments were all in jest, he found himself confronting his disappointment: he had not seen nor heard from Sybill Fauchelevent in now seven days. Her sister visited twice within that time and Gavroche frequented the Café near daily, but Sybill remained absent and silent; a behavior that seemed near foreign to her.

"My, Bahorel, do you suppose Courfeyrac has been left in the dust?" mused Feuilly with a wicked glean in his eyes. "Perhaps the lady has sought more respectable companionship."

"Or perhaps dear sweet Enjolras knows the lady's whereabouts," Bahorel sneered, peering in Enjolras's direction for the first time, banter and laughter still hanging off his lips.

"Hold your tongue," Courfeyrac responded at once, not daring to look at his friend beside him. Enjolras's own face betrayed no sign of noticing or acknowledging the attack on his character.

"Why, sir? Is there something amiss? I recollect many a letter passed betwixt the two. Perhaps something transpired-"

"I tire of you," Courfeyrac sighed, picking up his pace. "Do linger."

Courfeyrac tread faster into the night as Feuilly and Bahorel called after him to slow. Both men realized they must have struck deep a knife and swore to apologize later when the man's fire burned low.

Enjolras followed close to his friend, despite Courfeyrac's near run to avoid the two fellows that now trailed them as shadows. "Courfeyrac!" he called.

Courfeyrac slowed gradually to allow his friend to join his stride which Enjolras kept to at once. Neither spoke a word, feeling the unspoken remembrance of Enjolras and Sybill leaving the Café Musain seven days ago weigh between the two. Enjolras knew much about his friend, knew of his intelligence and perception within social scenarios, and he knew likely that Courfeyrac may discern the truth about his involvement with Sybill.

"Enjolras," ventured Courfeyrac first, "please do tell me if Mademoiselle Sybill Fauchelevent is unwell or displeased with me. That is all I seek."

"Why would I have-"

"Enjolras," Courfeyrac glared. "Is Sybill Fauchelevent well?"

The great thinker found himself confronted with conundrum. Should he tell his friend? Ease his fears? Or would he—

Instead, Enjolras's eyes caught sight of a figment buried in the snow. "What's this?" he inquired aloud, stooping to retrieve a piece of parchment near ruined from the ice and water on the pavement.

"Another essay," whistled Courfeyrac. "The man's been busy."

"Not an essay," Enjolras shook his head. "Look at the formatting."