(no subject)
Right, so, Grantaire and Courfeyrac have been writing each other letters. And we decided that their insanity must be shared with you all, so here it is.
Bonjour, Mlle Almandy! This is Adrien, and I'm quite obviously writing
a letter to you, but I suppose you know that -- only with a different
verb tense, something like 'I've already written a letter to you'
because, again quite obviously, what you would be receiving would be
the finished product of my efforts.
Which is not to say that my efforts would be going to waste at all. On
the contrary, lovely, it's rather an honour for me to be able to write
to you like this. I've always merely admired you from afar, and I
would go home, pull a Jehan, and compose senseless sonnets about you
on tear-stained paper. Once I did it on Mlle Fish's homework and she
called me a few names that really oughtn't even be mentioned by
ladies, it's disconcerting that the marvels of the fairer sex could
bear saying such things, even in private.
Yet I am certain that you, Mlle Mandy, are worlds more genteel than my
typist here who is thwapping me with a frozen herring at this very
moment. And no awe-inspiring intellect is needed to clearly perceive
that you are preferable in every aspect, except perhaps that Mlle Fish
does have a rather pretty vacuum cleaner, but I suppose you have one
just as, if not even more, quite fine. And if you don't, sweet, you
certainly deserve one. I'll buy you all the vacuum cleaners you'll
ever need, sell my books and work all night long, because you're just
that enchanting.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for the
splendid job you have done in representing Marius and Christophe. But
really, dear lady, you can see that Christophe and I are capable of
being serious sometimes, can you not? The banter and nonsense is
actually just a cover-up: while you and Mlle Fish are discussing your
matters, we also discuss matters of life, death, perfection, love,
betrayal, eternity, nature, time, space, asphalt, citrus fruits, and
other heavy subjects. Please do not assume that all it is possible for
us to do is snog and laugh about if for hours afterwards.
And as for Marius, the dear boy still owes me a hefty amount of money
I'm really not very keen on being paid back, but I'll still mention it
in hopes of watching him squirm. Ah, in fact, for the same precise
purpose, I shall mention such keywords as 'wasps' and 'letters'.
Alas, I would go on for ages, but the internet connection will
terminate in less than a minute. Until later, Mlle Mandy, I am your
very humble servant.
Much love,
Adrien Courfeyrac
My dear M. A. (de..except not) Courfeyrac,
Now, it would appear to be my turn to write to you, dear fellow. Or
written. Or writing. Well, by the time you've received this, it will
have been written at any rate.
The dear girl who claims to be my typist is very flattered by all your
praise, and is blushing rather like Doltmercy when faced with his
Lanoire for the very first time. She begs me to inform you that she
does indeed need a vacuum cleaner, and would be most greatly honoured
to receive such a thing from you.
She says that she's sure we can actually be serious at some points in
time, but prefers either serious or silliness when it concerns us.
And of course we discuss such things, I would know that. We may have
even found the Question a few times. But don't tell M. Dent or M.
Prefect that, they might steal our brains, and then where would we be?
And as for Doltmercy, you've made him squeak and turn quite pink.
Which, of course, is all very amusing and wonderful fun.
Congratulations, mon ami. Congratulations indeed.
I'm sure I could go on for ages as well, but this ...strange girl is
saying she wants to be off to bed soon, so I suppose I shall have to
wrap up. Happy Barricade Day. Or Death day, as the case may be.
I remain, Courfeyrac, your obedient servant.
Christophe Grantaire
To the Right Honourable
M. de Winecask
His Professional Corner of
Alcohol Stains, Romantic Brooding
And Tragically Unrequited Love
To start off with, dearest Christophe, give Mlle Mandy a hug from me,
will you. And assure her that I shall steal Mlle Fish's pretty blue
vacuum cleaner as soon as I can, because I'm rather out of pocket
money at the moment, as you might well know.
M. Prefect is at this moment being gloriously drunk -- as usual -- and
frankly, the only questions I remember us asking are "More wine?"
"Tea?" "You alright?" and "Are you insane?". If my memory is correct,
the answer to all these questions have more often than not been 'yes',
and hence I assume that none of them are The Question, as "More wine?"
"42!" does not make extreme sense. At all. Remotely. So we might not
have to worry about either of anyone taking either of our brains
anytime soon. (Though I do still harbor the notions of selling Marius'
brain, but don't tell him that. If he's trying to read over your
shoulder, give him a good solid thwap. Thank you.)
What can I say, Christophe. I adore you madly. I love how you don't
disapprove of anything I do, how bad an influence you are, and how you
never -actually- accept my marriage proposals, and how you keep me
pining in my own unrequited love. I love how we can't even make a
decent cup of tea between the two of us, and how you fall off your
couch when cosmic consternation brews in the air, and how you lick all
over everyone when you've been turned into a dog, and how your stubble
gives a really bloody painful stubble burn but I don't give a flying
damn because it's you.
In fact, hell, will you marry me? You'll probably toss me away, but
maybe I'm secretly an emotional masochist. Or maybe I just enjoy
watching the various ways you keep inventing to reject me over and
over again. At any rate, you'll probably break my heart, and I'll have
to weep on someone's shoulder, and somehow manage to put my pieces
back together again, some lengthy time later. I'll write bad poetry
about my experiences and publish a book.
Right now we're discussing Barricade Day with M. Jeanne and 'Zelma in
the mansion. Charles says to send you his regards, and 'Zelma just ran
into the kitchen to 'blow up something', as it is 'a special day'. I'm
not entirely sure if I'm supposed to stop her.
Happy Barricade Day to you as well, shining sir. I pray you dwell not
on the events of 173 years ago, and focus rather on the life -- or
lack thereof -- as of now. Until we meet again, I shall weep weeping
tears of longing.
Oh, and do me a favour, good fellow? Go whisper in Marius' ear for me
-- 'you don't know where my mattress has been'.
Love and kisses,
Your very own
Adrien Courfeyrac
To the Quite Honoured
Adrien (de) Courfeyrac,
Lord of General Tomfoolery
His Table of Poem Quotations,
Bothering Dolts,
And Incessant Flirting
Well, the hug has been duly given, my dear fellow. She thanks you for
Mlle. Fish's vacuum, as perhaps it will help her pack for her journey
home. And of course you're out of pocket money, you've been such for
173 years.
A headmate of mine, M. Dent, would like to join M. Prefect in his
state of glorious drunkenness. He is also very protective of his
brain, as is the Doltmercy. Marius requests that you do not steal his
brain, as he needs it. I have duly thwapped him, and now he's hiding
in a corner. Silly boy.
I love you madly, madly, madly, Madame Lib--no, wait. I love you
madly, madly Monsieur de Courfeyrac! (Forgive me, it fit the
syllables. Sort of. Or blame the typist.) That reminds me, I've not
fallen off my couch recently. Perhaps we should have some cosmic
consternation soon enough. Oh, I'm sorry about the stubble, cher.
Shall I have a shave? Just for you, of course.
Of -course- I'll marry you. And, of course, spend time thinking up
new ways to break your heart. And if I do break your heart, you can
weep on my shoulder, which doesn't really make too much sense; but
when have I ever been known to make sense? Hopefully your poetry
won't be as bad as Vogon poetry, for my sake and the sake of humanity.
Well, if she did blow up something, then it would certainly be in the
spirit of things, or so Marius tells me. I myself am rather amazed
that I slept through such noises. But hell, what do you do after
mixing brandy and absinthe? And I'll try not to, but only because you
beg me so desperately, cher Adrien.
I shall do so, once he emerges from his corner. Until we meet again,
I shall be angs -- er. Brooding romantically, yes indeed.
Hugs and kisses, without destroying the Earth (I should hope),
your one and only,
M. de Winecask
To the Greatly Exalted
Mountain of drunken intrepidity
& Manly intimidation,
Marie Christophe Grantaire
(Because important historical figures
Always seem to have that 'Marie'
In their names, it seemed necessary)
His hazy land of
Absinthe, brandy, Minty Gayness
And Chiseled abs
So we write again, dearest Christophe. I have not art to reckon my
groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it, or rather,
before believing it and me plunging on into declaring passionate
undying love in wigs and rhymed couplets, please inform Mlle Mandy
that I am most honoured to have done her a service, and will continue
to be at her utmost disposal in the future. And, please, do not remind
me of the state of my financial affairs -- it is as dismal as though
the Revolutionary tribunal had been waging war against the entire
universe for a decade.
When Marius emerges from his corner, along with threatening him about
the hygienic state of my mattress, will you assure him that I have no
intentions of stealing his brain? If ever we are in dire need of
funds, I shall trust you to hold his arms behind him while I assist
the medical students in taking it by force. But you won't mention this
to him, of course. It is imperative that our methods remain
undisclosed.
I shall forgive the particle, as I've often inserted it before your
own name on many occasions, so this seems only fair. However, I shan't
forgive you for running so cruelly away with the entirety of my heart.
And at such short notice! I had hardly made sense of your presence
when you were gone and away with my love, riding over mountains on
your trusty steed, cloak flapping in the wind. I realize that this
doesn't make much sense, as we've known each other for almost a
hundred and eighty years, but it must be the vapours of infatuation
that are influencing me.
The stubble, Christophe, is hardly an inconvenience -- it serves to
remind me of you, and I daresay that is enough to keep me gladdened
for an age. (If you do shave, not that I am encouraging you to, please
take care to use an acceptable aftershave.)
Alright then, let there be marriage! -- though we've promised the
breaking of a heart in various newfangled ways, even before we have
exchanged any wedding vows. I suppose it is up to me in this case to
play the part of the tragic heroine. I will indeed weep on your
(well-developed and highly masculine) shoulder, compose a sonnet or
two, and stab myself with a poisoned dagger. Excuse me for a moment
while I write this down in my calendar. Promise you'll mourn for a
little while, then, and shed a few bitter tears over my corpse. And
then marry some rich widow from the provinces, no doubt, and inherit
her fortune when she dies of old age and negligence. Perhaps then I'll
visit you, and we might carry on our supernatural love affair. I will
be expecting a good long herbal bath upon my arrival, so don't forget
to heat up the water.
I certainly hope my pleas have worked on -your- heart of granite.
You're rather contagiously depressing when you sulk about the past. In
fact, I entreat you to renounce all forms of brooding except the
romantic. That suits you rather finely, I've found.
Indeed, do not waste away too badly in my absence -- I should like to
see your amusing mug (and, of course, chiseled abs) just the way I
left it.
Forever yours,
Particle Man
To: The Lord of Tomfoolery
(And My Heart),
Otherwise Known As
M. Adrien (de) Courfeyrac,
His Happy Country of
Women, Mintiness, and Flowery Poetry,
Paris
Oh! Oh, dear Adrien, you have made me nearly swoon with all your flowery words. Truly, you could compete with M. de Bergerac in a contest of poetry, I should think. Damn the revolutionaries, I say. But then again, I say that about most everything, you see.
Of course I shall, cher Adrien. I look forward to taking part in this most important business venture. What were we getting out of it, anyways? I can't recall, but if it gives us money, it shouldn't hurt much. For us, at least.
Oh, you are a horrid flatterer. Damn you for using your manly (or womanly?) wiles upon me, for you've gotten me so dreadfully wrapped around your finger that I fear I shall do anything for you, mon cher. I daresay it's either the vapours of infatuation or the vapours of strong drink.
I told you I would shave for you, dear fellow. So, in token of that, shall I use some mint-smelling aftershave? Then I can smell like mint, quite literally.
I'm sure your death will be all dreadfully dramatic and Shakespearean. But I! You forget, my dear, about the poor soul left behind. My heart shall be crushed to pieces without you, for I shall realise the error of my ways -- and come back to you, and then you will be dead and gone. So, dear thing, save some poison for your Romeo, so we can at least be together in death; if we can't live happily married. Though, if we're both dead, perhaps we can take herbal baths in the afterlife?
Alright, dearest. But only if said romantic brooding is about you. I should think I'm not as expert at it as Byron himself, but I shall try my best.
...If you'd like to see my mug, would you also care to see a wineglass? Either one works. And I shall gladly share both (abs AND wine) with you, when we next meet.
Always and forever,
Grand R
Bonjour, Mlle Almandy! This is Adrien, and I'm quite obviously writing
a letter to you, but I suppose you know that -- only with a different
verb tense, something like 'I've already written a letter to you'
because, again quite obviously, what you would be receiving would be
the finished product of my efforts.
Which is not to say that my efforts would be going to waste at all. On
the contrary, lovely, it's rather an honour for me to be able to write
to you like this. I've always merely admired you from afar, and I
would go home, pull a Jehan, and compose senseless sonnets about you
on tear-stained paper. Once I did it on Mlle Fish's homework and she
called me a few names that really oughtn't even be mentioned by
ladies, it's disconcerting that the marvels of the fairer sex could
bear saying such things, even in private.
Yet I am certain that you, Mlle Mandy, are worlds more genteel than my
typist here who is thwapping me with a frozen herring at this very
moment. And no awe-inspiring intellect is needed to clearly perceive
that you are preferable in every aspect, except perhaps that Mlle Fish
does have a rather pretty vacuum cleaner, but I suppose you have one
just as, if not even more, quite fine. And if you don't, sweet, you
certainly deserve one. I'll buy you all the vacuum cleaners you'll
ever need, sell my books and work all night long, because you're just
that enchanting.
I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for the
splendid job you have done in representing Marius and Christophe. But
really, dear lady, you can see that Christophe and I are capable of
being serious sometimes, can you not? The banter and nonsense is
actually just a cover-up: while you and Mlle Fish are discussing your
matters, we also discuss matters of life, death, perfection, love,
betrayal, eternity, nature, time, space, asphalt, citrus fruits, and
other heavy subjects. Please do not assume that all it is possible for
us to do is snog and laugh about if for hours afterwards.
And as for Marius, the dear boy still owes me a hefty amount of money
I'm really not very keen on being paid back, but I'll still mention it
in hopes of watching him squirm. Ah, in fact, for the same precise
purpose, I shall mention such keywords as 'wasps' and 'letters'.
Alas, I would go on for ages, but the internet connection will
terminate in less than a minute. Until later, Mlle Mandy, I am your
very humble servant.
Much love,
Adrien Courfeyrac
My dear M. A. (de..except not) Courfeyrac,
Now, it would appear to be my turn to write to you, dear fellow. Or
written. Or writing. Well, by the time you've received this, it will
have been written at any rate.
The dear girl who claims to be my typist is very flattered by all your
praise, and is blushing rather like Doltmercy when faced with his
Lanoire for the very first time. She begs me to inform you that she
does indeed need a vacuum cleaner, and would be most greatly honoured
to receive such a thing from you.
She says that she's sure we can actually be serious at some points in
time, but prefers either serious or silliness when it concerns us.
And of course we discuss such things, I would know that. We may have
even found the Question a few times. But don't tell M. Dent or M.
Prefect that, they might steal our brains, and then where would we be?
And as for Doltmercy, you've made him squeak and turn quite pink.
Which, of course, is all very amusing and wonderful fun.
Congratulations, mon ami. Congratulations indeed.
I'm sure I could go on for ages as well, but this ...strange girl is
saying she wants to be off to bed soon, so I suppose I shall have to
wrap up. Happy Barricade Day. Or Death day, as the case may be.
I remain, Courfeyrac, your obedient servant.
Christophe Grantaire
To the Right Honourable
M. de Winecask
His Professional Corner of
Alcohol Stains, Romantic Brooding
And Tragically Unrequited Love
To start off with, dearest Christophe, give Mlle Mandy a hug from me,
will you. And assure her that I shall steal Mlle Fish's pretty blue
vacuum cleaner as soon as I can, because I'm rather out of pocket
money at the moment, as you might well know.
M. Prefect is at this moment being gloriously drunk -- as usual -- and
frankly, the only questions I remember us asking are "More wine?"
"Tea?" "You alright?" and "Are you insane?". If my memory is correct,
the answer to all these questions have more often than not been 'yes',
and hence I assume that none of them are The Question, as "More wine?"
"42!" does not make extreme sense. At all. Remotely. So we might not
have to worry about either of anyone taking either of our brains
anytime soon. (Though I do still harbor the notions of selling Marius'
brain, but don't tell him that. If he's trying to read over your
shoulder, give him a good solid thwap. Thank you.)
What can I say, Christophe. I adore you madly. I love how you don't
disapprove of anything I do, how bad an influence you are, and how you
never -actually- accept my marriage proposals, and how you keep me
pining in my own unrequited love. I love how we can't even make a
decent cup of tea between the two of us, and how you fall off your
couch when cosmic consternation brews in the air, and how you lick all
over everyone when you've been turned into a dog, and how your stubble
gives a really bloody painful stubble burn but I don't give a flying
damn because it's you.
In fact, hell, will you marry me? You'll probably toss me away, but
maybe I'm secretly an emotional masochist. Or maybe I just enjoy
watching the various ways you keep inventing to reject me over and
over again. At any rate, you'll probably break my heart, and I'll have
to weep on someone's shoulder, and somehow manage to put my pieces
back together again, some lengthy time later. I'll write bad poetry
about my experiences and publish a book.
Right now we're discussing Barricade Day with M. Jeanne and 'Zelma in
the mansion. Charles says to send you his regards, and 'Zelma just ran
into the kitchen to 'blow up something', as it is 'a special day'. I'm
not entirely sure if I'm supposed to stop her.
Happy Barricade Day to you as well, shining sir. I pray you dwell not
on the events of 173 years ago, and focus rather on the life -- or
lack thereof -- as of now. Until we meet again, I shall weep weeping
tears of longing.
Oh, and do me a favour, good fellow? Go whisper in Marius' ear for me
-- 'you don't know where my mattress has been'.
Love and kisses,
Your very own
Adrien Courfeyrac
To the Quite Honoured
Adrien (de) Courfeyrac,
Lord of General Tomfoolery
His Table of Poem Quotations,
Bothering Dolts,
And Incessant Flirting
Well, the hug has been duly given, my dear fellow. She thanks you for
Mlle. Fish's vacuum, as perhaps it will help her pack for her journey
home. And of course you're out of pocket money, you've been such for
173 years.
A headmate of mine, M. Dent, would like to join M. Prefect in his
state of glorious drunkenness. He is also very protective of his
brain, as is the Doltmercy. Marius requests that you do not steal his
brain, as he needs it. I have duly thwapped him, and now he's hiding
in a corner. Silly boy.
I love you madly, madly, madly, Madame Lib--no, wait. I love you
madly, madly Monsieur de Courfeyrac! (Forgive me, it fit the
syllables. Sort of. Or blame the typist.) That reminds me, I've not
fallen off my couch recently. Perhaps we should have some cosmic
consternation soon enough. Oh, I'm sorry about the stubble, cher.
Shall I have a shave? Just for you, of course.
Of -course- I'll marry you. And, of course, spend time thinking up
new ways to break your heart. And if I do break your heart, you can
weep on my shoulder, which doesn't really make too much sense; but
when have I ever been known to make sense? Hopefully your poetry
won't be as bad as Vogon poetry, for my sake and the sake of humanity.
Well, if she did blow up something, then it would certainly be in the
spirit of things, or so Marius tells me. I myself am rather amazed
that I slept through such noises. But hell, what do you do after
mixing brandy and absinthe? And I'll try not to, but only because you
beg me so desperately, cher Adrien.
I shall do so, once he emerges from his corner. Until we meet again,
I shall be angs -- er. Brooding romantically, yes indeed.
Hugs and kisses, without destroying the Earth (I should hope),
your one and only,
M. de Winecask
To the Greatly Exalted
Mountain of drunken intrepidity
& Manly intimidation,
Marie Christophe Grantaire
(Because important historical figures
Always seem to have that 'Marie'
In their names, it seemed necessary)
His hazy land of
Absinthe, brandy, Minty Gayness
And Chiseled abs
So we write again, dearest Christophe. I have not art to reckon my
groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it, or rather,
before believing it and me plunging on into declaring passionate
undying love in wigs and rhymed couplets, please inform Mlle Mandy
that I am most honoured to have done her a service, and will continue
to be at her utmost disposal in the future. And, please, do not remind
me of the state of my financial affairs -- it is as dismal as though
the Revolutionary tribunal had been waging war against the entire
universe for a decade.
When Marius emerges from his corner, along with threatening him about
the hygienic state of my mattress, will you assure him that I have no
intentions of stealing his brain? If ever we are in dire need of
funds, I shall trust you to hold his arms behind him while I assist
the medical students in taking it by force. But you won't mention this
to him, of course. It is imperative that our methods remain
undisclosed.
I shall forgive the particle, as I've often inserted it before your
own name on many occasions, so this seems only fair. However, I shan't
forgive you for running so cruelly away with the entirety of my heart.
And at such short notice! I had hardly made sense of your presence
when you were gone and away with my love, riding over mountains on
your trusty steed, cloak flapping in the wind. I realize that this
doesn't make much sense, as we've known each other for almost a
hundred and eighty years, but it must be the vapours of infatuation
that are influencing me.
The stubble, Christophe, is hardly an inconvenience -- it serves to
remind me of you, and I daresay that is enough to keep me gladdened
for an age. (If you do shave, not that I am encouraging you to, please
take care to use an acceptable aftershave.)
Alright then, let there be marriage! -- though we've promised the
breaking of a heart in various newfangled ways, even before we have
exchanged any wedding vows. I suppose it is up to me in this case to
play the part of the tragic heroine. I will indeed weep on your
(well-developed and highly masculine) shoulder, compose a sonnet or
two, and stab myself with a poisoned dagger. Excuse me for a moment
while I write this down in my calendar. Promise you'll mourn for a
little while, then, and shed a few bitter tears over my corpse. And
then marry some rich widow from the provinces, no doubt, and inherit
her fortune when she dies of old age and negligence. Perhaps then I'll
visit you, and we might carry on our supernatural love affair. I will
be expecting a good long herbal bath upon my arrival, so don't forget
to heat up the water.
I certainly hope my pleas have worked on -your- heart of granite.
You're rather contagiously depressing when you sulk about the past. In
fact, I entreat you to renounce all forms of brooding except the
romantic. That suits you rather finely, I've found.
Indeed, do not waste away too badly in my absence -- I should like to
see your amusing mug (and, of course, chiseled abs) just the way I
left it.
Forever yours,
Particle Man
To: The Lord of Tomfoolery
(And My Heart),
Otherwise Known As
M. Adrien (de) Courfeyrac,
His Happy Country of
Women, Mintiness, and Flowery Poetry,
Paris
Oh! Oh, dear Adrien, you have made me nearly swoon with all your flowery words. Truly, you could compete with M. de Bergerac in a contest of poetry, I should think. Damn the revolutionaries, I say. But then again, I say that about most everything, you see.
Of course I shall, cher Adrien. I look forward to taking part in this most important business venture. What were we getting out of it, anyways? I can't recall, but if it gives us money, it shouldn't hurt much. For us, at least.
Oh, you are a horrid flatterer. Damn you for using your manly (or womanly?) wiles upon me, for you've gotten me so dreadfully wrapped around your finger that I fear I shall do anything for you, mon cher. I daresay it's either the vapours of infatuation or the vapours of strong drink.
I told you I would shave for you, dear fellow. So, in token of that, shall I use some mint-smelling aftershave? Then I can smell like mint, quite literally.
I'm sure your death will be all dreadfully dramatic and Shakespearean. But I! You forget, my dear, about the poor soul left behind. My heart shall be crushed to pieces without you, for I shall realise the error of my ways -- and come back to you, and then you will be dead and gone. So, dear thing, save some poison for your Romeo, so we can at least be together in death; if we can't live happily married. Though, if we're both dead, perhaps we can take herbal baths in the afterlife?
Alright, dearest. But only if said romantic brooding is about you. I should think I'm not as expert at it as Byron himself, but I shall try my best.
...If you'd like to see my mug, would you also care to see a wineglass? Either one works. And I shall gladly share both (abs AND wine) with you, when we next meet.
Always and forever,
Grand R