August 1830 is a hot, oppressive month in France. Parisians, newly free of one monarch and laden with another, stay out of the sun as much as they can possibly manage, sipping wine in cafes and discussing their new government. This is as true of the revolutionary coteries as of anyone else, although they, in some relief, make little effort to keep their voices hushed as they were wont to do under Charles the Tenth.

"Of course it could be worse," Courfeyrac says, shrugging. "It's the waste I object to. All that effort for this..."

"A King, by God, as though any king can be bound by law if he sets his mind to it." Bossuet picks at a bandage on his left hand. "We didn't fight for absolutism to reinstate itself."

Combeferre half-smiles at him. "And, oddly enough, no one consulted us. But let's not borrow trouble."

Bahorel thumps the table. "We borrowed some, but it didn't get us far enough. We ought to borrow more before he's fully ensconced in power."

Courfeyrac chuckles at that. "No wonder you're always in debt."

"A king is weakest before the people love him," Prouvaire says lightly, shooting Bahorel a quelling look. "Do they love Louis-Philippe?"

Feuilly's smile is even fainter than Combeferre's. "Have you asked your neighbors? Most of mine are content."

"They shouldn't be," Bahorel says irritably, but he subsides.

Feuilly shrugs. "We wanted a change, we have one, so what are we moping for? They say."

"Perhaps we'll have to wait until this so-called bourgeois king dies of overeating," Prouvaire says and winks at Combeferre. "That would be civilized."

Combeferre laughs. "Indisputably."

"He has an heir apparent," Enjolras says, shaking his head, "which would render all attempts to assassinate him with souffles and creme brulee completely useless. A prince is as bad as a king."

Courfeyrac shrugs again. "Not invariably. At the very least, he tends to be younger and less set in his ways."

"If you put a petty bourgeois in a palace, how long is it before he puts on airs and begins whipping the serfs?" Bahorel asks, waving a hand.

Combeferre chuckles. "That all depends."

"On what?" asks Enjolras.

"On his character; but the point remains," nodding to Bahorel.

"Pity we don't know anything about his character." Bossuet glances at the door. "He's not terribly old, is he?"

"Not yet thirty." Joly sneezes, and winces.

"It doesn't matter how old he is." Enjolras stands and begins pacing. "He's a prince. Princes grow into kings as surely as wolf pups grow into savage beasts, and there's little we can do, sitting here, but plan to dethrone his father before this grafted dynasty has a chance to grow. The people were with us, you know that, you could feel it. The councillors, ah, if only they had taken to the streets as true vassals would have, it would have been sweet to see them fall, and then we might not have this new farce of leadership, as though the men chanting for freedom wanted a king."

"None of us disagrees with you," Combeferre says gently.

"I know you don't, but why are we sitting here as peacefully as though we won?"

Courfeyrac arches a brow. "Pure indolence, of course."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Enjolras," conciliating, "you know as well as I do that we have done all we can for the moment. Do sit down."

Bossuet waves his bandaged hand. "We have to rest. Reconnoitre. Regroup."

Enjolras sits, sighing. "But something must be done."

"But not today." Combeferre pats his shoulder. "It will work out."

"It will," Prouvaire says, smiling.

"Not quickly enough by half for my taste." Bahorel shrugs. "It was working, everything was going well, and all of a sudden we were off course."

Combeferre shrugs. "So, the time was not as right as we thought."

"I don't see how it could have been any better," Bahorel objects. "Freedom of the presses stalls and the people rise. What do you want, widespread atrocities before the people notice?"

"Of course not," mildly. "I didn't say I was pleased. Merely resigned for the moment."

Joly rubs his eyes. "Very sensible of you."

"Sensible, perhaps, but not at all practical." Enjolras shakes his head. "If we cannot act now, if we do not, then it will be that much harder to change this monarchy." He pronounces the last word as if it were the coarsest vulgarity in a sailor's vocabulary.

"What should we do?" Combeferre says reasonably. "Storm the palace, now that everyone is calm again? Shout our dissatisfaction from the rooftops?"

Prouvaire nods. "We must wait and see how things will settle. How can we act effectively against a government we hardly know?"

Courfeyrac leans back in his chair. "And one which has had no time to offend anyone."

"Rather to the contrary," Feuilly says dryly.

"Prouvaire, you said we might wait until this new-minted king is cold in his grave," Enjolras says, accusing him with a long look. "Surely you did not believe that."

Prouvaire meets his gaze, then looks away. "I don't know."

Combeferre says gently, "What do you think, then?"

Enjolras' jaw sets for a moment as he considers this. "Something must be done, and if we do not begin now we will lose the momentum of those three glorious days."

Courfeyrac directs a mocking grin at Combeferre. "Apply sweet reason, before power has time to corrupt?"

"Reason is too gentle," Bahorel objects. "We've no reason to sit and think about it for months on end. We must act."

Combeferre sighs. "Which is all very well to say."

"It's all very well to do." Bahorel pushes his chair back with a great grating sound and stands. "You may talk until the stars burn out, I'm going to do something."

"Such as what?" Combeferre's voice is quiet.

"I'll know when I see it." Bahorel slams the door open. "I'll see you later."

Joly twitches at the noise. "Afternoon."

There is a general chorus of, "Until later," although Prouvaire calls, "Take care!" just before the door crashes shut again.

Combeferre glances, a little desperately, from Bahorel to Enjolras, and back to the door. "I'd better-- excuse me." He pushes back his chair to follow.

Enjolras shakes his head. "Good luck."

"Thank you. I expect I'll need it." Combeferre goes out, much more quietly.

Bossuet sighs. "Someone will have to help him talk his way out of a cell, at any rate."

Courfeyrac half-grins. "Though it's hard to talk with a broken nose."

"Oh, dear." Prouvaire sighs. "I do hope he's more careful than that."

"They'll be all right," Courfeyrac says comfortably.

"Yes, I didn't go with them," Bossuet agrees.

Enjolras sighs. "Perhaps we all should have."

Courfeyrac shrugs. "To do what? Break a few windows? No. Better to stay here and think of better plans."

Prouvaire yawns. "I don't think I have any plans left after the last few weeks." He picks up his books. "I'll leave you to it."

Feuilly pushes back his chair. "I'd better be off too."

Enjolras glances up after a moment. "Ah. Goodnight."

Courfeyrac nods. "Evening, Jehan. Feuilly. Take care."

Prouvaire nods to the room at large. "Goodnight." He goes out, as does Feuilly.

Joly, seized by a sneezing fit, merely waves rather feebly.

Bossuet frowns at him. "Perhaps we should get you home."

"I'm all right," somewhat breathlessly. "Quite all right, only a cold."

Enjolras shakes his head.

Bossuet pats Joly's shoulder. "Let's go home, then, until your cold goes away again."

Joly wipes his eyes, glances at the other two, then sighs. "You're probably right."

Bossuet stands and offers him a hand. "Come on, then."

"Good night," Enjolras says, and with only a small tinge of irony, "Feel better, Joly."

Joly grins wryly, and stands. "Good night." He shakes his head at Enjolras. "I expect I shall. Don't come down with anything, will you?" With another sniffle, he heads for the door.

Bossuet grins at Courfeyrac. "Goodnight," and he follows Joly.

When they have gone, Courfeyrac sighs, resting his chin in his hands. "Revolutions are so damned exhausting," he says lightly. "There really ought to be a better way."

Enjolras gives Courfeyrac a level look. "Assassinating the king would solve nothing."

Courfeyrac blinks at him. "Did I say that? No, no. Hardly a good idea. Besides, he seems a decent enough old nuisance, and him with the grown children, to boot. I was only ..." a shrug "... reflecting."

"Reflecting on what?"

"Aimlessly." Courfeyrac grins. "Not very useful, I admit."

Enjolras frowns a little. "Not very."

Courfeyrac shrugs again, in his elegant, lazy way. "This is why I let you have the ideas. You're much better at it."

"I don't have any ideas at the moment," Enjolras admits, "or I would have gone storming off like Bahorel to put them into practice. Don't denigrate yourself; you have had many good ideas in the past."

Courfeyrac smiles. "Well, I thank you. I think I've used up my reserve. All the ideas I have at the moment are either wild or frivolous."

Enjolras smiles back for a moment. "Oh?"

Courfeyrac chuckles. "Such as getting my Jacquette to coax our dear monarch into running away with her to China. Or, alternatively, going home to see whether she's already run off with someone much less illustrious."

Enjolras shakes his head. "Wild and frivolous indeed, I see your meaning. She must be a fine girl if you think a king would abdicate for her."

Courfeyrac grins. "She is, rather. Stranger things have happened."

"I doubt, somehow, that he would give up all France for her, however lovely she is."

"Likely not," cheerfully. "Wild ideas, as I say. I'm good for little else today."

Enjolras nods a little. "Ah, well. It's better than sitting at home."

"Do you think so, really?"

"It gets them out of your system," wryly, "so that when we need sensible

ideas, you won't think of these."

"True enough. But then, once upon a time, all our notions were ridiculously wild ideas." Courfeyrac stretches. "And it's far too late to sort them out tonight, I think."

"It isn't that late," Enjolras says, but he interrupts himself with a yawn.

Courfeyrac grins. "Late enough." And, more seriously, "Don't fret too much, mon ami. It's not the end of the world, or of anything, really."

"I know. I just feel that something should be done." Enjolras shrugs.

"Something will be." The smile flashes again, irrepressible. "I have faith in you."

"Thank you," with a grave nod.

"Not at all."

"Do you have any more esoteric ideas to share?" with a faint smile.

Courfeyrac yawns. "Can't say as I do."

"All right." Enjolras stands. "Goodnight, then."

Courfeyrac inclines his head in a lackadaisical nod. "Goodnight, mon ami."

Enjolras hesitates a moment, then goes out the door.

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