In Vino Stupiditas (Victor)

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

Thomas Jefferson truly had been right, when he put the vineyard of Chateau de la Fite amongst the five finest vineyards of France, Bahorel thought as he took another measuring sip of this truly excellent drop the local landlord had presented him with at being asked what was the finest he could offer for tonight. Bahorel was not a stranger to this etablissment, and he was known to give the owner a few extra francs every once in a while together with one or the other ‘counsel’ as to which vintages he should consider in his next big order. While his friends admired and read the Father of the Declaration of Independence solely for his benefits on equality of men, Bahorel had found his other various scripts also quite entertaining and educational. Sitting right here, with one hand holding the glass, and the other arm wrapped around the voluptous frame of Denise, his newest conquest, he thought there was probably no better way to spend your evening.

The wine was strong, it had to be said, and after a few sips already he could feel it getting to his head, but that was of no consequences. There was no meeting he had to attend tonight, no reason to be sober and fully attentive, he felt he had almost forgotten how it felt to be himself, the idler, the bonviveur and conoisseur in all the hectic that had broken out after the May Parade. They needed to seize the moment and make use of the unrest that was still fresh in people’s minds, of course, but they all were allowed a little time to breathe, right? There was no way he was going to let the thought of Enjolras scowling down at him in his head ruin his evening! This kind of holier-than-thou attitude the leader of Les Amis was pulling off these days was so unbefitting! What was the use in being on earth, if it was to live life on your knees or to work your back stiff? There was a time for revolution, and there was a time for actually savouring what was presented to them by fate. Like Denise here… she truly was a gift from above, he was certain.

As crammed as the tavern was at this time of night, Bahorel was sharing the table with another fellow maybe around his age, also having a pretty lady on his lap. But this lad’s face was far too sullen given his fine circumstances. Oh dear, that had to be remedied! Leaning forward, he addressed his counterpart, giving Denise a little pinch in the side which made her squeal and him grin. “Wha’s got your spirits down, friend? The state of the world, or the state of your glass? The former’s not easily remedied, but definitely possible… whilst the latter is rather a simple matter to cure. Durand!” he called out to the landlord with a broad grin. “Give this young gentleman whatever he desires, it’s on me!”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Any man who spent more than a night in Paris and refrained from sampling the offerings of her backstreet whores and drinking establishments was, in Victor's eyes, either a fool or an aspiring saint. Fools might have their ignorance forgiven, though their lives were never something to be envied. Saints perhaps could be forgiven too, but also never envied. They resisted the temptations and the pleasures of the earth in hopes of something beyond, and from every story Victor remembered from the lengthy book of saints in his father's library, something like the majority of them met ignominious and unpleasant ends. The cavalry captain was by no means a coward, but if he were to die a violent death he far preferred the honor of the battlefield to whatever insane torture could be thought up for some blushing, saintly martyr whose name Victor could not summon into his mind after so much wine. Frowning, he noticed his glass was again empty.

The name he could remember, however, was that of the girl perched on his knee, her arms wrapped loosely and salaciously around his neck. Béatrice, and he could see why Dante Alighieri might fall in love—or, perhaps, at least in lust—with a woman by such a name if she resembled this one even in the least. The bodice of her dress had come loosened at some point during the evening, though Victor could not remember if he had caused that particular detail or not. He found it quite possible to appreciate the effect regardless. Laying a kiss on the young woman's neck, he glanced back across the table at the sound of another man's voice speaking to him. He wrapped his arms around Béatrice's waist, protective of his pretty little conquest for tonight at least. The other man had his own, it was evident, but Victor knew better than to trust him not to steal her for the night anyway and leave him to find another. It would be more difficult now that he had begun the night's drinking in earnest, and he preferred to retain what he had.

The offer of more wine, once Victor had comprehended it, cheered him a little. “My glass,” he answered, impressed with his own ability to speak clearly. He was not so drunk as to be an embarrassment to his uniform—which he had in one of his few habitual bits of wisdom elected not to wear for the night's activities—and apparently not even enough to embarrass himself. Good; there were hours left and countless other taverns to visit should this one dry up. “The world might have its failings, but how much can a man complain when it is inhabited by such creatures as these?” He permitted himself the quick trace of a smile, nodding downward at the girl draped over his lap.

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

Good Lord, this young man there surely was three sheets to the wind, Bahorel observed with quite some amusement. He might be on his fast way there too, but it was always fun to watch others getting there first and showing it in quite such a way. Given, the man had not made a fool of himself or emptied his stomach all over his conquest - all of which Bahorel had seen in taverns through the years – so there was quite some self-dicipline at work. He appreciated that. One had to be a good drinker without becoming a silly drunkard, that much was for sure; there was nothing worse than becoming a nuisance or a teary mess when drunk. That was one reason why Bahorel for example frowned on his friend Grantaire – that man just didn’t know when to stop and pulled others down with him with his sarcastic moodgames. But maybe he was lucky tonight and happened upon a happy drunk, just like himself. There was nothing to be said against the company of others even though they both had found themselves girls.

Just to make sure Denise did not think he was forgetting he, he let one hand wander over her bodice, while the other found its way up her leg and under her rucked up skirts, which caused her to wiggle and giggle, leaning against him comfortably and thus encouraging him to continue. She also had had a good many drinks sponsored by him, but he knew her a little, well enough to know that she could hold a lot and it made her only a little less… inhibited. Then he focussed his attention on the young man vis-à-vis again, nodding with a funnily sage edge to the movement. “Ye shall have a good drop then, my friend, so you can savour this evening to its fullest!” he promised good-naturedly, while the landlord came over to exchange the man’s empty glass for a full one. Then, letting go of Denise for a moment, he extended his hand over the table, smiling broadly: “Name’s Bahorel. Known face around ‘ere, hope also a well-liked one!”

He was, however, a little reluctant to agree to the man’s statement wholeheartedly. There WERE many things going wrong with this world, and surely he would see that? One had to be blind not to see it, surely! “Ah, bu’ a man always has reason te complain!” he insisted, nodding again. “The world’s full o’ such lovely creatures as my lil Denise here or your lovely companion, bu’ dun they deserve the best life? And look how the world’s treatin’ them! Denise’s workin’ her lovely back crooked at the factories an’ yet she can’t scrape enough together te sustain her poor bedridden mother.” That certainly made her savour fun even more though, on the few nights she allowed herself to be out. And he couldn't find anything wrong with that!

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

“D'Anthes,” Victor replied, taking the offered hand and shaking it firmly. Something told him to be careful about this man, but he found that he liked him regardless. He felt a certain fraternity with other men who knew how to enjoy the pleasant bits of life and didn't feel the need to check in with a priest beforehand. “I'm afraid I'm a newer face here,” he added with a smirk. This Bahorel didn't look to be a man of particular breeding, but his choice of drinking establishment meant he couldn't quite be working-class rabble either.

“And that best life comes on the knees of men like us,” Victor offered with another little grin. The implication behind Bahorel's words did not settle well with the cavalryman. No one talked about working conditions over wine and with a woman, at least not anyone of a decent level of breeding and with a proper head about these things. “They work their days... and then they come here at night, and what's the matter with that?” Béatrice's body seemed to tense, and a glance down showed him that her expression had hardened. He paused, offering her a caress and a rather salacious kiss on the neck. She did not respond with the same softness and invitation as he had hoped. He would have to change his tactic.

“Well... maybe there is something to be said against the state of the world, when you put it like that. Poor, pretty little creatures.” He caressed her again, letting his hand wander toward her bodice but pausing before it became too overt for their company. “Please tell me that you've caught up the slack and become the patron of her welfare, good man.” He straightened the fabric under his hand, excited by the feeling of the flesh of Béatrice's breast beneath it. “A tragedy, if such beauties as these must sell their virtue instead of offering it as a gift.”

The girl still seemed tense, and Victor found himself wishing that she would refrain from offering her own support for what Bahorel said. He did not think she was so bold, but then... he hardly knew her. He did not want to lose the promise of further pleasures to such a vulgar thing as politics.

[FABIEN BAHOREL]

D’Anthes... Bahorel wasn’t so far gone already to not realize what this name implied: that he was talking to someone higher born, but that needn’t be something bad in itself. Look at Courfeyrac, look at Marius – though the latter seemed to have lost his head somewhere down the line and needed yet to find it again – there were higher borns that weren’t necessarily haughty and mean. They just had to be pushed in the right direction, then they could be valuable additions to the cause with their connections and their money. Moreover, Bahorel in his befuddled mind, made euphoric by the consumption of quite some amount of wine, was convinced that he had found a fellow soul in this D’Anthes fellow, a connoisseur like him, but not blind to the problems of the world once he was made aware of them.

Denise seemed very pleased in what he said about her poor life conditions and rewarded his concern with a salacious smile and a searing kiss that distracted him for a moment. Ah, the perks of being a hero of France! He remembered the time very well after the Lallemand riot, when the girls had come flocking to get their piece of the brave young man who had defied the police in the name of the poor student killed by their brutality. And he was definitely getting his share now, as long as he didn’t get his head in it as much as some of his friends. There first had to be a revolution before they could reap the fruits of it! “Oh, I’ve done what I can, surely!” he replied proudly and nodded towards D’Anthes. “My dear girl Denise will not go hungry as long as I can help it. But this is nothing but a drop in the bucket. There are many girls and boys like her, and I can’t help them all. It is the conditions in themselves that need to change.”

That earned him another look of approval from Denise, and he could feel her relaxing beneath him, rewarding her ‘hero’ with a bold show of slowly wandering hands towards some of his delicatest regions. Ah, he could hardly wait for the night! But right now, he had found a different trail, and he would follow it. He might be a bit of a swashbuckler, but he had enough senses most of the time to know that they revolt would not last long which just the ten of them manning the barricades. They needed support for all kinds of things, and every soul in tune was welcome. “It does stain our own virtue does it not?” he commented, leaning forward again. “But not everyone is just sitting back and wailing. The old ones, they have no longer spunk in them, they’ve come to terms with what is, forgetting what could be. But us, the youth!” he slammed a fist on the table, seeing a few drops of the precious wine slosh over the brim of the glass. “Oh, excuse-moi”, he murmured, his voice a little slurred already. “It is true though, we, dear D’Anthes, we are young, we are strong, and we cannot hide in the shadow of responsibility forever!”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

If this Bahorel wanted to get Victor involved in politics, he would fail. It was the sort of occupation he could never bring himself to really be interested in, except as it determined who might be ordering him off to fight. Or die. He was still aware of the girl on his lap and her change in demeanor as the conversation had shifted. Smiling through the alcoholic haze that had begun to settle around his mind, he turned his attention back toward the man across the table.

“Won't we trouble the ladies with talk like this?” In a playful expression of his point, he cupped a hand over Béatrice's ear, pressing her head against his chest. Realistically, he knew there was nothing they could say that a girl like her hadn't already heard—but only part of it was chivalry to begin with, the other a more selfish desire to change the subject of conversation. “I go where France needs me.” He did not think that such a sentiment would offend even this possible young ideologue. Then, Victor had rarely met anyone outside the Chouannerie who was both painfully political and any older than thirty.

Even if Victor's France was perhaps a different thing than Bahorel's. Of course he didn't begrudge pretty girls like Béatrice and Denise a pleasant life—and he spent his money generously enough in giving them a taste of it. Whether others, less blessed by God and nature, suffered was something that rarely could cross his mind. Each had their place, their role, and no army could function without both officers and common enlisted men. “The last thing any of them need is another civil war.”

That, he thought, was probably quite true. Chaos never seemed to do much good for people like that, and he had seen more than enough peasants trampled in a pool of blood as the result of countryside skirmishes. It was better for everyone if they stayed where they were born, did their work, and stayed out of the affairs of the nobility. The best of them might win promotions in the army, the worst of them would die drunks and entirely unnoticed. It was the nature of life, of nature, of existence—and Victor couldn't see anything wrong with it.