le_centre | OOM: An Adventure in the Making

"Yes. Yes, you young people who have never drawn breath in a republic deserve better." Why, he drew breath in a nominal republic for a full year and then some, as an infant, before the Empire was formalized!

Bossuet claps a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder and sways affectionately at him. If Courfeyrac weren't also gripping his arm, there might be a question of losing verticality. "We shall find her. Our Patria. But let me make a call first and tell Joly not to wait up. You know, I regret not taking his walking-stick. If I had thought we would take a walk...sandwiches..."

Whatever he's saying about sandwiches is lost in the lapel of his coat as he searches his pockets for the magical-or-scientific communicative watch.

"Joly? Joly Joly Jolllllly-y-yyy--ah--that is, this is Bossuet, and not an opera-singer, telling you not to wait up for me. That is, if you want to you may, I would never discourage it, but you need not feel obliged. Courfeyrac and I are off to see Paris--poor lad, he's never set foot in the French Republic--come to think of it, neither have you--you will have to come along--no, but wait, I was telling you not to stay up, as you probably work tomorrow--I will let you sleep," he concludes magnanimously, and pockets the watch again.

He's still getting the hang of talking on the phone.

Joly is in fact wide awake, and in his lab, and happily covered in wires at the moment the open watch on his table starts talking. Which is why he can't get to it before Lesgle clicks silent.

Which doesn't stop Joly from immediately trying to contact him again. "Bossuet, wait- what do you mean, Paris? How are you going to Paris? When in Paris? Which Republic?? Who's taking you there?"

These are important questions! There are potentially very worrying answers.

He and Courfeyrac are underway again when his coat starts speaking to him. A certain amount of pocket-fumbling has to happen as well, and they're nearly at the Labyrinth entrance by the time he answers.

"Allô, Joly! I thought you'd be too tied up in science to answer. It's the Fifth, isn't it? The Fifth Republic? In 2013? I believe it's the Fifth. Our dear proud First Republic is dated until 1804, although I admit it wasn't much of one under the Directory or the Consulate, and then the second one will come along in 1848...there's another in 1870...Courfeyrac, do you remember, will the Fourth Republic be established in '45 or '46? Well, never mind that--we're at the Labyrinth, and you're very welcome to come join us if you like, but I know you've got something terribly involved happening with wires, I--ah--Joly? Joly?"

He taps his watch, tries again, and shrugs. "Not working. Ah, well! But here we are, Courfeyrac, in the Labyrinth itself!"

He is going to answer, 'I believe '46?' but by the time the thought has come, he has forgotten what the question was, and Bossuet has moved on in any case. So he gazes around and blinks at the darkness, and checks his hand to make sure the bottle is still there.

'This is not Paris.'

Most decidedly not.

"How observant you are! Enlightened and enlightening, round and radiant..." Wait, has Coufreyrac had That Book inflicted on him yet? Bossuet hurries on. "It is not Paris. It is a Labyrinth; naturally to reach one's treasure one must first find it. I am assured by the highly trustworthy Dr. Lecter that the only way out is to continue--no turning back--so I propose that we keep walking."

He links an arm through Courfeyrac's, once he can find it, and adds more prosaically, "It ought to get lighter soon."

'Good good. I am not stranger to finding the treasure before enjoying it.'

Linking arms is fine, and also sensible! It's dark, after all. Courfeyrac wanders along amiably enough, humming to himself and waiting for Paris to arrive. He does know what a Labyrinth is, of course, and has heard the thrilling tales of Dragons! from Bossuet...it's simply that all that it on the other side of alcohol, and currently not particularly real.

'Do you suppose,' he says, after a short while, 'that if we actually tried to go back, the entrance will literally not be there? Or simply that we will be prevented from reaching it in some way? If I were a scientist, I would say that would be a worthy experiment - not simply because it would also test Lecter's trustworthiness in some matters - but as I am not, I say onward!'

"Hrm." Laigle cranes his neck to look behind them--nearly turning them around in the process--but there's a certain forbidding darkness that makes Courfeyrac's suggestion of onward seem particularly appealing. Yes. Onward!

And indeed, it does get lighter soon; around a corner they come to a rack hung with very ordinary lanterns. Bossuet takes one. The wobbling, flickering light just makes the shadows more forbidding. "Do you know--Courfeyrac--if I'd been thinking--not that I wasn't thinking, I understand that one's brain is always engaged in thought even when nothing seems to come of it--but if I'd been thinking--"

He clears his throat. "Maybe it would have been wise to bring my lance. The one from the dragon's hoard. You know."

'Mmmm.'

He ponders this deeply, giving it all the consideration it deserves.

And drinks some more. This means he has to let go of Laigle's arm, because he decides it's probably sensible if he takes a lantern as well.

'Do you mean to return it? Or in case of danger?'

Two lanterns make the light-and-shadows business much less disconcerting. "In case of danger, of course. I have no intention of returning my dragon-treasure. Ah--unless the dragon comes to the bar looking for it, of course. No one wants to be the fool who got his whole village burned to the ground because of a misunderstanding about magical trinkets."

He's been venturing ahead while he speaks, and now turns to look at Courfeyrac again. "Behold! Our fate is in our hands; the passage divides; choose left, right, or center."

'Yes, but-' he points out, coming to a halt, '-if you give the lance back, there may be no danger to be had.'

He raises his voice a little because there is more light now, but the noise echoes unpleasantly, and he becomes aware that while their immediate area is better lit, it only makes the darkness outside that sphere even more impenetrable.

He lowers his voice again.

'I vote centre - ahead straight, my friend! - but of course this is an equal society, and each of us have a vote.'

"If we find the dragon," he answers, somewhat nettled, "I'll leave it an IOU and come back later, all right? I didn't notice you packing anything other than refreshments..."

That was a little unfair. He gives Courfeyrac an apologetic look, and nods to his choice at the fork in the tunnel. "I often incline to the left, but in this case your sounder judgment shall prevail. Center it is." The path of moderation!

And indeed, the center route does seem to have been a good choice. The walls get lighter regardless of their lanterns, and after a few minutes they seem to be walking down a comfortably-carpeted hallway rather than a stone tunnel.

His eyebrows rise a little at the jibe, but very well, perhaps this is a good time to become more serious.

...though there is still plenty of refreshment left, so perhaps later. He nudges Bossuet's arm with his own, grins and bites back a comment about inclining towards the left.

'I very much doubt we will find dragons in here. I defer to your greater knowledge, my friend - do we leave the lanterns and hope there will be more on the other side of this, or carry them with us?'

It is a very good, thick carpet. The wood panelling on the walls appears to be of fine quality too, and is shiny and deep brown. He can smell the faint whiff of polish.

"I prefer to keep my lantern, in case of...in case. Of situations." Yes. In case of situations.

Such as a door on their right. Laigle lifts his lantern to it, to check for a sign on the door, but it creaks open before he can even touch it. "Ah--Courfeyrac? It does at least look like it might be in Paris."

Coufeyrac is beginning to suspect that Bossuet suspects danger, which is extremely suspicious because confronting a dragon sounded more like fun than anything when the story was told. Or at least, that's how it worked out in Courfeyrac's head. Before he was drunk. Or maybe because.

All thoughts on this matter dissolve when the door creaks open. What sits before them is little short of a horror - a horror neither of them has ever been prepared to face.

Thick books on the shelves. A large, mahogany desk in view. Plush carpet and piles of paper, the sight of a fountain pen that would cost as much as two months food for a poor family...Courfeyrac grips Bossuet's arm in fear, his eyes wide.

'Laigle,' he whispers, in horror. 'Is this what I think-?'

Edited 2015-01-22 22:30 (UTC)

"--A law office."

The words can't be taken back, once they're spoken, though putting the horror into words only makes it all the more real.

They had barely stepped into the room--had they even stepped into it at all?--when the door slams shut behind them.

Bossuet pats Courfeyrac's hand where it clutches his arm, and walks slowly into the middle of the room. So much mahogany. So much plush. So much leather binding. And two desks. Two desks: that's what really makes his heart begin to tremble. One desk tidier than the other, but both quite respectable; the tidier desk ranged about with small portraits. Photographs, they must be.

Lesgle reaches for one, picks it up and studies it, and then passes it to Courfeyrac, pale-faced.

Curly dark hair around an advancing bald spot. A well-cut coat and waistcoat over a middle-aged paunch. A cheerful smile: a successful smile.

Courfeyrac's face goes from theatrical horror to actual horror in the space of a heartbeat. He puts his lantern down - not the bottle, though - and takes the photograph. For once, he does not think about how such things are made, but instead stares at his own fat face, on top of his own fat body, in clothes that are easily as expensive as his father's and probably more so, and...

'This is my...no. No, this is our office.'

He stares at Bossuet.

'...did we not die after all?'

What. Is Going. On?

Theirs. Definitely theirs, both of them: Bossuet has gone to another photograph, larger, on the wall. Maître de Courfeyrac et Maître Lègle. Avocats. They're posed as if shaking hands, looking at the portrait-maker--photographer?--and smiling fixed smiles. A little older than they are now; younger than the Courfeyrac in the other photograph.

He hardly knows what to say.

This one must be his desk.

Courfeyrac drops 'his' picture on the floor, and strides to the second desk, snatching up the nearest photograph he can reach. It shows Bossuet, as bald as ever, of course, except now with an enormous beard that reaches halfway down to his rotund belly. His clothes are perhaps not cut quite so finely as de Courfeyrac's, but he is still clearly a prosperous man; the overwhelming impression is of a small, well-dressed egg. With a beard.

He hands the photograph over silently. And then drinks deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a studious show of defiance.

'Well.'

He hopes they are dead as they both think they are. There are cupboards against one wall; he pulls one open and looks at files, closes it, tries another and starts to rummage. He doesn't understand what's going on here, but he'd like some proof that it is all unreal.

Well--a tall, well-dressed egg, anyway. With a beard. It is the beard of a man who feels that he is being ever-so-slightly defiant of convention: look at this touch of whimsy.

Bossuet takes it back to the desk and starts rummaging as well, frantically. Papers. Papers, papers, papers, all very business-like. The next drawer is reassuringly miscellaneous at first glance--a dictionary, a small half-full bottle of brandy. Another photograph and a small clump of letters.

He's expecting another picture of himself or Courfeyrac. It's not. He sits down leglessly in the (very comfortable) chair at the desk and stares, feeling horribly sober.

Joly looks very well. The blonde woman must be his wife. A baby in her arms, a small child on Joly's knee.

'We have a dinner reservation with the Baron Pontmercy this evening, it seems,' he says, his face deep in an appointment diary.

'And every one of our clients appears to be-'

He snaps the thing shut in disgust, not wanting to voice it. There is no way to escape the fact. He has become his father. And worse, perhaps, because his father never stood on a barricade. To believe one thing so strongly, and then entirely reverse is worse than never believing in the thing to start with.

'What do you have there?'

He comes to see. And when he does, there is a twist of sorrow in his chest for his friend. He squeezes his shoulder in genuine sympathy, and says, quietly, 'do not think of it, Bossuet. This is not us, it cannot be. It is not real.'

"No..." No; even their appearance in Hugo's novel is more them than this. But it's not impossible. Haven't they joked about it often enough? Their law careers! Their wives and children!

He puts the photograph back and has a glance at the half-dozen letters next to it. Joly's handwriting. Dated from Avignon.

"No, it isn't us. Whatever else one might say about us, we possess the virtue of having escaped bourgeois middle age. I wonder what happened in '32, in this--world?" Laigle looks over his shoulder at the window, beyond which there does appear to be a Paris.

Courfeyrac goes to the window, and peers out. Despite the awfulness of this room, homesickness stabs at his belly. It's still Paris out there.

'We could go and find out,' he says quietly, not knowing if it's even possible.

'There must be a way to get out there.'

"Leaping out the window from here would certainly be a statement."

The last few minutes have had an unpleasantly sobering effect. Lesgle joins Courfeyrac at the window and considers: is he drunk enough for this? He should probably have another good long pull at his bottle first--and so he does.

"--Ah! Well, I'm your man, if you want to try it." Eyebrows, eyebrows, eyebrows.

There's the usual little grill in front of the window. It would slow down anyone actually trying to leap, but it makes it moderately easier to climb.

Eyebrows, eyebrows, eyebrows.

'Yes. Let's.'

This is likely not a good idea at all, but he is still rather drunk - though not in the fun way, now - and there is a city in front of him that at least approximates Paris. The labyrinth will surely bring them back in so they can quest on to find the future!version that is not this, and then they can continue.

He hoists himself up onto the sill - first trusting Bossuet with his bottle - and leans out as far as he's able.

'There's a carriage below, a very fine one. Do you suppose it's ours?'

He imagines it is. And so, no one can object if he lets himself dangle and then drop on to the roof of it, surely? No.

"It had damned well better not be. A carriage? That means farewell, omnibus! and farewell, diligence! --Once you're down there, let me hand you down the bottles, and I'll follow when they're safe."

Priorities.

Edited 2015-01-23 16:01 (UTC)

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