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Hesitation: November, 1828
One sunny afternoon not long after Monsieur le Baron Marius Pontmercy has transferred all of his material goods from his dwelling in a fiacre to a slightly less expensive room next door to Courfeyrac, he knocks on his friend and neighbor's door with a somewhat nervous look. "Who's there?" comes the answer, lazily. "Um, it's Marius." A pause. "Oh. Half a minute." In slightly more than half a minute Courfeyrac opens the door, shirtsleeved and tousled. "Hello there." Pontmercy blushes. "I'm sorry, did I wake you? I'll go." "Quite all right." Courfeyrac steps aside to let him in. "What's on your mind?" "I just wanted to talk to you." Courfeyrac scrubs a hand across his eyes. "To be sure. Do sit down." Pontmercy sits in Courfeyrac's desk chair after a moment. "I was wondering," he says, and stops there, as though that is a whole sentence. Courfeyrac collapses gracefully onto the edge of the bed. "Yes?" "If you were -- er -- fond of someone." Pontmercy runs a hand through his hair and looks at the floor. "How would you tell, um, her?" The last word is quiet, almost reluctant. Courfeyrac blinks at him. "Well. That would depend, wouldn't it?" Pontmercy blinks back. "Would it? On what?" "On the -- person in question." "Oh." Pontmercy looks at the floor again. "Well. I don't know what you mean -- I'm sorry, I don't suppose you've much experience in this either." Courfeyrac chuckles. "A little. I don't know. How much subtlety is required?" "If I knew," somewhat testily, "why would I be asking you?" "Take the number of hovering relatives, multiply by probable cost of her clothes, divide by ten and allow that many days for significant progress," says Courfeyrac flippantly. Pontmercy stares at him for a moment. "You're joking. Aren't you?" "Mostly." "Ah." Pontmercy fidgets with his collar. "So if she hasn't many relatives or much money --" Courfeyrac shrugs. "Then you can probably speak plainly." If you can manage it without stammering, poor boy. Pontmercy blushes. "But -- she's a good person." "Of course." Courfeyrac grins. "You're not going to say anything insulting, are you?" "She might think I'm uncouth." "Not if you do it right." "But I've never done it before. How would I know what's right?" Courfeyrac chuckles. "My dear fellow, I don't think you could be uncouth if you tried." "But I might do it by mistake." "I wouldn't worry," kindly. Pontmercy sighs. "I'm not you." "And a very good thing, too. One of me is quite sufficient, I'm told." Courfeyrac grins at him. "Don't worry so much. If your intentions are good--" Pontmercy shrugs. "I don't think I can say what I mean." "Well, I certainly can't say what you mean." Courfeyrac leans over to rest a hand on his knee. "If she's at all bright, she'll know what you mean." Pontmercy looks at him and frowns for a moment, then bites his lip. "I just don't want her to -- to think I'm asking too much." Courfeyrac grins. "She won't, if you don't. Use a little tact, that's all." "Of course I will," Pontmercy says, offended. "I just --" "Of course you will," soothingly, "and so you'll be perfectly all right. Unless you aren't, in which case she's a heartless baggage anyway." "All right, I suppose." Pontmercy sighs. "How do you manage it?" Courfeyrac grins. "Confidence, mon ami." "Oh. I wish I had some." "Well, look at it this way; there's no reason not to." "But I've never done this before." Pontmercy puts his head in his hands. "You have to start somewhere, don't you?" "I suppose." Courfeyrac meets his eyes. "Mon ami, believe me. Be straightforward, be gentle, anyone in her senses will be glad to give you the benefit of the doubt." Pontmercy nods. "All right. Thank you." "Anything I can do," lightly. This, unaccountably, makes him blush again. "Thank you." He stands. Courfeyrac rises likewise, graceful, casual. "Not at all." Pontmercy bites his lip. "I'll see you later?" "In all likelihood." Courfeyrac grins. "Until then." Pontmercy goes out.
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