In Vino Veritas
She's an artful wench, I have to admit. Every gesture is calculated to leave its mark. The plain, clean, yet oh-so-becoming clothes, mark of a poor but honest maiden; the straightforward gaze, devoid of shallow coquetry. The offhand quotations of that self-absorbed old fart, Rousseau!
He can't take his eyes off her. Oh, my poor Apollo, the nymph has her claws in you now.
She's modest without being submissive; she's intelligent without being bookish; she's beguiling without being voluptuous. If her ankles show, it's only by accident, oh heavens yes. Who the hell let her in here?
He calls her by name. Softly, respectfully, grave and sincere.
She calls him by name, the blasphemous bitch. Who does she think she is?
Courfeyrac minds his manners in her presence. Combeferre consults her on matters of historic import. She charms Joly out of his hypochondria, and consoles Bossuet for his misfortunes. Prouvaire writes her sonnets. Feuilly mends her fan.
Me, I stay long hours in the corner, getting drunker than usual, watching her weave her damned enchantments on everyone I know. When I go home, she's waiting for me in my nightmares, a wraith with cascading curls of wheaten gold and eyes like changeable emeralds. You think I exaggerate!
One evening she arrives before the rest, carrying a book under one arm and her shawl over the other. Comes over and plants herself in front of me -- determined, yet not aggressive; bold, yet not brazen -- and tries her charms on me. And when I don't respond:
"Why don't you like me, Grantaire?"
I look her over as contemptuously as I can manage. O for your glacial detachment, Apollo! -- however much it's suffered. "I don't like anyone," I tell her dourly.
She gazes down at me with eyes full of compassion and sorrow. "It's because Enjolras is my friend, isn't it? And you're jealous because you're in love with him." Sadly, pitying my embittered folly. "Do you want to talk about it?"
I stare at her. Beautiful as the dawn (yet modest), kindly as a sister, and magnanimous as God's own mother. If only I'd yield, pour out my soul to her, accept her tender sympathy and her womanly wisdom, I'd be cured of everything that ails me; I'd give up the bottle, subscribe to a dozen ideals and marry her winsome sister, and all would be well.
Sure.
Looking her in the sea-green eye, I cross myself deliberately, with all the mockery I can muster.
"Get thee behind me, Marie-Suzanne."