Sunday Drink {Open} « Thread Started on Apr 13, 2009, 2:16pm »
[justify] Sunday, July 4, 1875
It was becoming almost a ritual, moreso than attending a nearby church or even going to the populaire's chapel. To be honest, it was his chance to slip away unnoticed and have some time to himself. Sometimes other men joined him; other times, such as today, he went unaccompanied, which more often than not, he preferred. It meant total escape from life inside that place, which was ultimately the point in leaving it, right? To get away from the headaches caused by the gossip and bickering, to just relax in an atmosphere that wasn't where he worked. It sounded like heaven, and it usually was. Of course, some would call him blasphemous for thinking such a thing and call him a heathen for avoiding churches whenever possible, but he didn't care. It was all the same there. Repent or face hellfire and brimstone. And then they'd preach against things like gossip and whatnot and what did everyone do? Get each other worked up, sided against each other. Strife, division. No, he'd had enough of it as a child, and he didn't care what that made others believe of him.
Alcohol didn't lie. It didn't backstab. It was what it was, and it did what it did. And the people there were typically more themselves, more honest, than any self-righteous "believer." Even if it was merely because the alcohol removed inhibitions and made them more open to talk about their problems or brawl to try to solve them, it was simply pure gut reaction. Within a church, everyone was on their best behavior, afraid of having their faith questioned by others. They judged those with motes in their eyes despite having beams in their own just like the Bible talked about. To him, they were a bunch of hypocrites, and if anyone dared try to preach to him or show concern for his soul, he would thank them for their concern and then proceed to tell them where he was concerned for their soul based on the aspects of their lives he knew about--a more or less polite way of telling them to shut up and leave him alone. They would either get defensive despite his using Scripture to back what he said or they would walk off in a huff. Either way, amusing.
With a sigh, Christophe paused outside the pub he frequented, taking in one last breath of fresh air before entering it, finding it relatively empty, but that might change after the church let out. The thought made him smile a little to himself. Go to church and pretend to be all saintly and godly and then step foot outdoors and go on living just like the "heathen." Stupid hypocrites couldn't even see it, didn't realize it, or simply didn't wish to acknowledge it. It meant giving up their pet "sin," after all. They were just like everyone else, but they didn't want to admit it. They wanted to be better than everyone else. Arrogant hypocrites. But, enough of that. He didn't escape one prison to make his own mind into one contemplating the hypocrisies of religion and religious people. He escaped to relax and enjoy himself, and that he would starting now. "André!" he called out, and the man took one look at him before grabbing his usual and setting the drink before Christophe, who thanked him and took a drink, leaning forward against the bar top. [/justify]
Sunday mornings were usually reserved for going to church, or, to what the Catholics considered to be a church. The thing was, Lefcourt wasn't a Catholic, had never been one and chances that he would ever be one were quite slim. As an Anglican he found the Catholics somewhat odd. But right now that didn't really matter. This morning had been quite different. There had been no time for church. No sir, not today.
Lefcourt had been... busy. Busy with an issue that had required his whole attention. It was a common known fact that one would not insult a Coldstreamer and simply walk away. However, this common fact was not nearly as known in France as it was in Britain. Thus Lefcourt had missed church. Not that listening to the same ramblings about sin and what not was necessarily something he would hate to miss out.
“I don't think he expected it, did he?” asked Lefcourt's companion. Unlike the lieutenant-colonel he was in uniform. “What do you expect from the Frogs? I must say that I am surprised that he had to courage to face me. I expected him to not even show up.” The other man shrugged, while ignoring Lefcourt's comment about the Frogs, “I guess he thought it would be easy. Must have been his first time. That or his other opponents have been hardly competent.” “Indeed.”
They turned a corner and Lefcourt noticed the sign across the street. “It might be too early for a drink, but it's too late for church, but I would think that God has no problems with a drink every now and then. After all, I remember someone once saying that beer is the proof that God wants us to be happy. Sergent-Chef,” he addressed his companion, “care to join me?”
The Sergent-Chef stopped and saluted “Oui, mon colonel.” Lefcourt scoffed. “You've been among these Frogs for too long, honestly.” “Frogs and Lobsters, isn't it?” The Sergeant-Chef noted. “Ironic how, after Boney, they make quite a good team, don't they?” Those weren't mere words. The Crimean War had proven this clearly. Lefcourt and the Sergent-Chef had both fought alongside French units, Lefcourt as a Coldstreamer, the Sergent-Chef as a member of the Grenadier Regiment of Foot Guards. But it seemed that France's warriors were a different breed than France's politicians and noblemen.
When Lefcourt entered the pub he noticed that it was still fairly empty. Of course, most people were still at church. “Well I certainly hope that the beer is better than the looks of it,” he noted in English. “Then again, I don't recall the Frogs ever brewing proper beer.” “The closer you get to the Germans, the better the beer becomes, usually,” the Sergent-Chef replied after taking off his white kepi. A civilian and a legionnaire in a pub like this on a Sunday morning? That was hardly a common sight.
They took a seat. “I have to thank you,” Lefcourt began. “I couldn't have wished for a more competent second. My thanks will haunt you forever, lieutenant Partridge.” The former lieutenant of Her Majesty's army bowed his head. “Thank you colonel. But I thought how could I abandon a fellow guardsman?” Lieutenant Partridge's, or better said Sergent-Chef Lefebvre's French was -of course- better than Lefcourt's, thus he quickly ordered the drinks.
“You know,” Partridge said finally, “he was afraid. I don't think he ever faced death like this before. His right hand shivered a bit when he cocked it. I think he was expecting you not to come.” Lefcourt snorted at that. “Arrogant little Frog. Of course I would come!” he exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud. “I'm a Coldstreamer.” “You might want to be careful among the... Frogs... with calling them... Frogs,” Partridge said calmly. The colonel nodded, but after taking a sip he continued. “Apparently, the young duke had no idea that Coldstreamers never toast the Queen, which, in fact, can be forgiven, but the rest. No sir.” He slapped his flat hand on the table to emphasize his point, “no Coldstreamer could have walked away from that! There was no other way out than to demand satisfaction.” “And satisfaction you received.” Partridge nodded. “Maybe I should have shot him in the leg rather than the arm,” Lefcourt mused. “Oh well, there's no good in crying over spilled milk, is there? At least it will make the other Frogs consider their insults next time.”
[justify] And all had been fairly eventless before the two foreigners had set foot in his little pub. At that point, Christophe found himself listening despite being unable to understand what they were saying. The words were strange, and compared to what he was used to, really, they sounded like ducks. It was a harsh language, English. The people were loud and no matter how softly they spoke, the language didn't sound pretty to him compared to his native tongue. He sighed, looking back forward and taking a drink, trying to ignore how annoying it was to hear something yet not be able to understand it. However, after a few minutes, it was grating him, and he didn't care how "rude" it might be to tell their foreign guests to be quiet anymore. "Silence, s'il vous plaît?" he demanded in French, looking over his shoulder directly at the men.
One of the men had ordered the drinks and had seemed competent, so surely such a simple request would be understood. If they ignored him? Well, it was be obvious that they weren't completely ignorant of the language, so it wouldn't be a wise move in his opinion. He wouldn't exactly do much to them, though he might attempt to get them removed from the premises. However, he didn't know whether or not André would acquiesce to his request, and he would be forced to leave by his own mind because the constant "quacking" would give him a headache. Despite the odds against him, Christophe hoped that it would all manage to somehow work out to his favor. It was, nevertheless, in the Brits' best interests to refrain from mentioning "Frog" in reference to his nationality in a manner that he could understand and also to refrain from showing any perceived annoyance in their faces or tone of voice. He wasn't in the mood for nonsense. He had, after all, come here to escape as much nonsense as possible, and yes, he did realize that a pub wasn't the best place for that, but what did it matter? [/justify]
Geoffrey's eyes narrowed slightly. Had that young Frog just told them to be quiet? Oh the gall of some folk! He could be as loud as he damned well pleased! The arrogance of the youth these days! Incredible. Worse yet, a little boy -at least from Geoffrey's point of view- telling two veterans -one of them being a staff sergeant of the French Foreign Legion and, with that, already a French citizen- to be quiet! Obviously those Communist and anarchist ideas that seemed to float freely in Paris were not good. Not at all.
Lefebvre's eyes focused on Christophe for a second. Oh dear, he looked like he was about twelve years old. A child. So young and already thought he owned the place.
“Communists,” Geoffrey remarked. “They seem to be everywhere these days, Sergent-Chef,” he emphasized the French rank of his companion, though the blue greatcoat and the green epaulettes with red woolen fringes should have given away what he was anyway. Not to mention the képi blanc, the white kepi, on the table between them. “I don't know,” staff sergeant Lefebvre of the French Foreign Legion, formerly known as Lieutenant Partridge of the Grenadier Guards, replied. “Could be an anarchist, one of those strange folk who set up the Commune for two months here in Paris about four years ago. He seems old enough.” It made Geoffrey snort. The Frogs and their revolutions. Not even a hundred years had passed since the great French Revolution of 1789 and the French had already had two more of those. They just couldn't live in peace it seemed. Then he shook his head. “What's his problem anyway? Wants us to be silent? By Jove, this is a pub. What does he expect? Peace? Silence? Cheese and wine? I must admit, sometimes I don't understand why you joined them, Sergent-Chef.”
[justify] It wasn't that Christophe hadn't noticed the ranks of the men. It wasn't that he hadn't heard the lieutenant colonel emphasize the Sergent-Chef's rank. It was merely that he didn't care. Why should he? No, he didn't expect a pub to be entirely quiet nor did he want it to be, but he certainly didn't expect it to be overrun by "quacking." After they went on to speak a little longer, the stagehand tapped his blunt fingertips against the bar top before finally turning around to look at the strange-sounding men again. And once more, he addressed them in his native tongue. "You sound like ducks. Quiet down or go to the corner. I don't really care which." Honestly, these men needed to realize that unless they were completely inebriated, he didn't see any excuse for them to speak loudly enough to be heard and bother him. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the tongue that made it seem so loud, but what did he care? They had come to his country. They should learn and speak the language or at least be courteous enough not to be rude. They weren't over on their island anymore.
He didn't turn around this time. Instead, he continued to sit there, looking over at the two men and carelessly taking a swig of his drink. He was determined not to turn around until they had complied. After all, they might now believe they had intimidated him, if he were to turn around during his little self-initiated show down, and he was no coward nor would he have anyone believe that of him. He knew both the men were older and had some definite experience in the armed forces, so perhaps it was foolish, but it wasn't as though he was demanding a duel or a brawl of any sort. It would be stupid to wish to do either over something like this. Surely the men were civilized enough to realize this and not even bring up such a suggestion. And if they did, well, he would figure something out even if it was to surprise them by not giving up or backing down. [/justify]
That did it for Lefcourt. Ducks? Who did that boy think he was? And what gave him the right to insult them? No wonder the French were beaten by the Germans just four years ago. These youngsters didn't know when to keep their mouths shut. The boy was lucky that this was France and that he was French, if this had just happened somewhere in Britain then Lefcourt would have dragged him outside for a good thrashing already. Youths these days, they had no manners. And Lefcourt blamed it all on these strange new political ideas. Communism, Socialism, all those... -isms. Annoying at best, a menace for any civilized society at worst! Not that the French were that civilized anyway. The revolution of 1789, Napoleon, then the revolution of 1848, then the other Napoleon, and finally that Commune. Dictators and revolutions seemed to be part of what it meant to be French. “Now,” Lefcourt said in French, “I suggest you shut up and and make sure you don't bite off more than you can chew. Not to mention learn some manners, boy.”
It had been such a good day. Everything seemed to be fine, for once. Even the hangover from last night wasn't that bad. Ah, the last night, what a night it had been. He had to admit one thing: the French knew how to celebrate. It was almost like back home. Just that the women weren't as pretty. But that really depended on the point of view, didn't it?
Though, he had missed church, but that was hardly a problem, was it? Jack had to admit that he considered the European ways if dealing with the mass to be a bit... well... strange and he wasn't really used to it. It was certainly different, but he preferred the Southern way in this one particular area. Apart from that, God would surely not be angry if he missed church every now and then, right? Honestly if God would be angry at him, then he had plenty of other reasons for it than just missing church. Turning a few dozen wives into widows was certainly far worse than missing church. Though, it had been war and the bluebellies had been his enemies. He had killed them, they had killed his comrades, that had been it. End of discussion.
Jack had accidentally stumbled over this particular pub just two days ago. Or had it been three? He wasn't so sure anymore, after all the little event last night had been... quite impressive. Though... what had he walked in on this time? There was this young man, obviously French, and then there were those two other guys, one also French, at least judging from his uniform he seemed to be a French soldier and another one who... Hmm... Wasn't that a Tommy Lobster? At least from what Jack had picked up from the conversation so far. A Lobster and a French teaming up on another French? Though, uniforms could deceive easily, Jack knew that too well. There had been Southerners fighting on the Union side wearing Union blue in the civil war, thus uniforms didn't mean that much. French Foreign Legion, Jack thought. So he could have been anything, really. But the “lieutenant colonel” somewhat gave away the nationality of the other man. Only the British would pronounce “lieutenant” in that particular way. Leftenant, it was quite weird, really. So that meant two British against one French. It wasn't really Jack's business so he had decided against getting involved. But obviously the tensions between those three seemed to heat up quickly.
Oh those Europeans, couldn't they be civilized just once? The British against the French, it was an old story dating back a few hundred years. These days it seemed to have left the battlefields and instead led to brawls in pubs and bars. They just couldn't get along, could they? Lobsters and Frogs. They were like fire and water.
Jack had a look at the British, then he focused his gaze on Christophe. But eventually Jacques Beauregard merely shook his head. He wasn't in the mood for getting into a fight, simply because it wasn't his battle. However, he had realized that the young French was well advised to be careful. What Jack had picked up from the conversation between the two British told him that the one in civilian clothes had just fought a duel and apparently, he had won. Challenges were thrown out quickly, Jack knew about that too well. And some people accepted them too quickly for their own good.
[justify] Ah, so he spoke French, did he? Then what was the man discussing that was so private he couldn't let others understand? "Perhaps you should learn manners, monsieur. As I'm certain you recall, I asked you fairly politely, and you failed to listen to my request. You are in France, not England, anymore. Learn to adapt or I should have reason to believe you are 'talking behind our backs,' no?" Christophe rose a brow. He wasn't going to be scared by threats. He knew very well what they could mean in the end, but honestly, it was stupid to behave that way. He'd never fired a gun in his life, but he wasn't an idiot. He'd seen them fired before. He knew how to use one...in theory. But honestly, why kill someone over some stupid little disagreement in a pub or elsewhere? Just because it's what we do? Not much of a reason to do it, is it?
And here the British thought they were so civilized, more civilized than even them, but they were no better than the French that surrounded them in this city. They were simply sore that the French helped the Americans gain their liberté. Stupid little redcoats. He was sure that the fact that the British still had a bit of an empire somehow made them feel they were better, but how? Did it really make them better than the man that they had defeated here in France? Napoleon? But of course, somehow that defeat and the fact that here in France revolutions weren't unheard of made them uncivilized. Hadn't the Americans finished their own "revolution" of sorts only 20 years ago? Granted, the redcoats probably found that something to be noted and watched. But he was done assuming what the British saw things as, though, as it was pointless. He hadn't had the opportunity to talk to one until now--at least not one who was in uniform, and usually any conversation he had wasn't involving such things.
Nevermind that from the looks of it, it could be his last.
((Blah. Hungry and tired while writing, but it's done!)) [/justify]
“If I wish to talk behind your back, I will do so, son. What are you going to do about it? Call your communist friends?”
Geoffrey had no love for those Reds. Their little revolution in Paris just four years ago had been put down quickly. Those Reds could only cause problems and apparently this little Frog was also one of them. His whole attitude seemed to give it away. What was his problem anyway? He was just some little French kid who seemed to believe that he owned the place. Typical French. First they were all on their high horses, and the soon after that they would get their asses kicked by almost everyone in Europe. Well, if the boy would continue begging for it, then Geoffrey would happily oblige. There was no reason to go easy on a child like that, who was most like a communist anyway. And communists... had no rights.
It was slowly but steady getting out of line. If this continued, those two would be at each others throats within the next few minutes and then, so Jack had concluded, the French would lose, most likely even his life. It was hardly a way to start the day, was it?
Jack sighed to himself, then he finished his drink. Not that he cared too much about the French, but a fight, right here in front of his nose, or even a duel at a later point were hardly necessary. It simply wasn't worth it. Not over something as trivial as this. As it was, Jack was already preparing himself for an intervention. A duel between other people wasn't his business, no, but someone throwing away his life like this... Dear god. He just couldn't watch, could he?
Still, first he wanted to see the boy's reaction to what the Brit had just said. Communists? Jack's own experience with those folks were limited. However, he had heard one or two things about them and he had to say that they seemed to be quite stupid. They seemed to be a rather violent bunch, only hungry for power, not really caring about anything than getting said power. Just like all those politicians who talked big, which made them not necessarily friends of Jack Beauregard.
Five years have passed since the incident with the Phantom and Christine Daaé. Since then, Raoul and Christine have married, and many of the former members have moved on, forced to find employment elsewhere as the place was abandoned. However, recently the doors have been reopened, and the managers are looking for new people to join their cast despite the whispers and rumors concerning the Phantom. Many wonder if he's alive or dead and if he's still around the remains of the Populaire, lurking somewhere in the shadows. Yet somehow the show must go on.
Announcements
6/21/09 - Well, I'm back from vacation. It was a fun trip aside from some small scares. If you want to see pictures, just let me know. Anyway, I shall try to get posts up as soon as possible. Hope everyone is doing well!
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