#gibelotte

[jolys-cane]

drew modern au corinthe girls!!!! they are in love forever. smooch. kiss. etc

i see them as like. dive bar waitresses in a modern au (because the corinthe food and drink is horrible, apparently) so i gave them cute little uniform shirts. i did not know that matelote is canonically a redhead!! grantaire describes her hair as "chromate-of-lead-coloured" which is as far as i can see a very very bright yellow-to-red.

[99liner-s]

I need headcanon for the les mis girls aka Irma, Floreal, Louison, Matelotte and Gibelotte, it's been ages since I last heard about them

[thebrickinbrick]

Preliminary Gayeties, Part 1

LAIGLE DE MEAUX, as the reader knows, lived more with Joly than elsewhere. He had a lodging, as a bird has one on a branch. The two friends lived together, ate together, slept together. They had everything in common, even Musichetta, to some extent. They were, what the subordinate monks who accompany monks are called, bini. On the morning of the 5th of June, they went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly, who was all stuffed up, had a catarrh which Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed.

It was about nine o'clock in the morning, when they opened the door of Corinthe.

They ascended to the first floor. Matelote and Gibelotte received them.

"Oysters, cheese, and ham," said Laigle. And they seated themselves at a table.

The wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.

Gibelotte, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on the table.

While they were busy with their first oysters, a head appeared at the hatchway of the staircase, and a voice said:

"I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor of Brie cheese. I enter." It was Grantaire.

Grantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.

At the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottes of wine on the table. That made three.

"Are you going to drink those two bottles?" Laigle inquired of Grantaire.

Grantaire replied, "All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never yet astonished a man."

The others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a bottle was rapidly gulped down.

"So you have a hole in your stomach?" began Laigle again.

“You have one in your elbow," said Grantaire. And after having emptied his glass, he added: "Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old.”

“I should hope so," retorted Laigle. "That's why we get on well together, my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, it does not bind me anywhere, it is moulded on my deformities, it falls in with all my movements, I am only conscious of it because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old friends."

"That's true," ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue, "an old goat is an old abi” (ami, friend).

"Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up," said Grantaire.

"Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from the boulevard?"

"No."

"We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I."

"It's a marvellous sight," said Joly.

"How quiet this street is!" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect that Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen that in former days there were nothing but convents here! In this neighborhood! Du Breul and Sauval give a list of them, and so does the Abbé Lebeuf. They were all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, shaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins, Carmelites, Little Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines, there was no end of them."

"Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes one want to scratch oneself."

“Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in front of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is called a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink! What scrawling!

"And then, I met a pretty girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be called Floréal, and who is delighted, enraptured, as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her! Alas! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is a bankeress. This transformation took place last night. I met the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces left upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: ‘The wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenæ did to you, the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.’ Rome said: ‘You shall not take Clusium.’ Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: ‘Væ victis!’ That is what right is. Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles! It makes my flesh creep.”

He held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank and went on, having hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine, of which no one, not even himself, had taken any notice:—

“Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in the other. So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that procession, et cætera, et cætera. Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won’t work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has his hands perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place, I’d be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism every minute, I’d lead the human race in a straightforward way, I’d weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I would have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do without them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its performance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of Cæsar. Brutus deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man; ’93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head of the poster. Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! extraordinary show! Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not enough. These resources, gathered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty. My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup d’état because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah’s fortune; and when I see so much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is threadbare, witness the Prince de Condé hung, when I see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is empty gives a ball. God must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I bet that it won’t come all day. This is the inexactness of an ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is a tease. It’s like children, those who want them have none, and those who don’t want them have them. Total: I’m vexed.

[akallabeth-joie]

Between 11pm-midnight, June 5

Jean Prouvaire is executed by firing squad. Mme Hucheloup, Matelotte and Gibelotte, who all live at the Corinth, flee to the cellar. Éponine dies of her wounds, after revealing her identity to Marius, and giving him Cosette’s letter. Marius sends Gavroche away from the barricade with a response for Cosette, then writes a note directing that his corpse be taken to his grandfather’s house.

[viiioca]

day 2: earth

From the journal of Estelle de Laussienne, 4th of the 6th Umbral Moon, 5 7A.E. It was my father who loved rabbit best. I remember that. He was never much for the kitchen, but treated the stewpot properly enough on longer trips when we'd camp between settlements; rabbit was easy to catch, or cheap to buy off a passing hunter. In the central highlands of Coerthas, he would send me off to forage little cèpes and chanterelles, and with them he would make civet de lapin with a finish of blood in the broth. The eastern highlands loved its orchards dearly, where he would buy rabbit already marinating in apple vinegar, and we would have lapin en saupiquet, or other times, stewed in cider. Lapin à la moutarde. Blanquette de lapin. Lapin en gibelotte. A dozen dishes, each embroidered in the specific pattern of him, remembered with a startling clarity when I am given a moment to stop, to breathe. I tell myself that I ought to be patient with them. They mean well. The world might be ending and everyone means so terribly well. But I have not had a proper meal since Garlemald, I believe. I think. I can hardly recall; I've scarcely had time to sit, let alone look at a watch, and the matter of time gets -- smudged, on occasion. Indistinct. Urianger might protest, but surely Hydaelyn would not miss one or two of Her awful little helpers?

[roevember 2023 prompt by boreal tempest & roe fizzlebeef]

[jumpstartfactoftheday]

In some French releases of JumpStart games, Hopsalot is renamed to Gibelotte, which is the name of a stew traditionally made with rabbit meat. Essentially, this is the equivalent to naming a pig character Bacon.

[pilferingapples]

Not really? Not unless you think he also red, purple and white-wine coded him! Absinthe isn't ever noted to be a particularly preferred drink with Grantaire; he's a lot more linked to wine! ( "I likes the girls and I likes good wine" , "Shut up, Winecask" , "Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun (huge winecask)of Heidelberg has an attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which will be applied to it." Gibelotte bringing him TWO bottles of wine to get started, etc)

Even deep into his final bender, absinthe is only one of several things he's drinking, and only late in the game:

As for Grantaire, he had got beyond wine, that merely moderate inspirer of dreams, ever since mid-day. Wine enjoys only a conventional popularity with serious drinkers. There is, in fact, in the matter of inebriety, white magic and black magic; wine is only white magic. Grantaire was a daring drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible fit of drunkenness yawning before him, far from arresting him, attracted him. He had abandoned the bottle and taken to the beerglass. The beer-glass is the abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish on hand, and being desirous of filling his brain with twilight, he had had recourse to that fearful mixture of brandy, stout, absinthe, which produces the most terrible of lethargies. It is of these three vapors, beer, brandy, and absinthe, that the lead of the soul is composed.

If Grantaire has any kind of Absinthe Specialist rep, that's from another source than Hugo! (I'd guess fandom but heck, it's been adapted a zillion times, maybe one made him a bigger absinthe fan?)

@les mis oriented friends, was grantaire green-coded before the 2012 movie?? or is all this just the influence of gblagden's green R vest

[bbclesmis]

Fanny Carbonnel has been cast as Gibelotte.

x

[alisoncooper]

Not being heard is no reason for silence

[triumvirate] [unholy trinity] [hipster squad] [3 of hearts] [street urchins] [girl squad] [fugitive songbirds] [cafe girls] [original trio]

[vapaus-ystavyys-tasaarvo]

Preliminary Gayeties (first part) from Jean Valjean (1963) by Le Théâtre de la Jeunesse

Feat. Grantaire, Lesgle, Prouvaire, Corinthe Crew and Navet!

Yes, Prouvaire instead of Joly :/ My theory is that this is an alternative universe in which Lesgle and Joly fused into one person called Lesgle since he pretty much stands in for both of them. And of course he has hair even in this one… Also Prouvaire is kind of boring.

ASIDE FROM ALL THAT THOUGH, this is pure joy. I can’t get enough of Les Amis interacting with Corinthe Crew. :D Especially in this. They’re delightful. Also yeah, Grantaire kind of steals the scene.

This isn’t even the full scene yet! But the whole thing was too long for Tumblr so I had to cut it up. Plus I need to finish subtitling the rest which includes a lot of drunken rambling courtesy of A Certain Someone.

(I’m not at all sure about the “concubine” line. It’s more like my best guess for a thing Grantaire might say that might get that reaction. I have no idea what that word actually is. This argot dictionary translates nonnant(e) as “friend/companion” but it doesn’t really fit the context? Why would Gibelotte be shocked by that? Unless it has a connotation.)

[jolys-cane]

Les Amis de l'ABCD(iscord)!

✨

What is this?

This is a Discord server I made to talk about Les Mis with other cool people 😄

How do I join?

Just click the link, read the rules, grab roles and post an intro!

How is this Les Mis server different from others?

I'm sure this server is quite similar to a few others, but with this one I hope to foster a casual environment where people can talk about their favourite media and make friends in the fandom without feeling judged. I also plan to host game nights, fanart/fanfic contests, and writing/art prompts on occasion!

There are spaces for fanfic, fanart, headcanons, ship discussion, and casual discussion - but I have also made a few channels dedicated just to meta analysis and historical resources, to make this server a bit of a safe place for canon-era enjoyers.

Is this server only about Les Amis?

Don't let the Discord name fool you! I want to encourage discussion of ALL aspects of Les Mis, and that includes all characters, minor and major. If you want to talk about how you think Blachevelle and Fameuil should have kissed, I want to encourage you to do so! I certainly am going to talk a lot about Gibelotte and Matelote. Old man enjoyers are also welcomed with open arms.

[thebrickinbrick]

Night Begins to Descend Upon Grantaire, Part 2

In the meantime, in the space of a few minutes, twenty iron bars had been wrenched from the grated front of the wine-shop, ten fathoms of street had been unpaved;

Gavroche and Bahorel had seized in its passage, and overturned, the dray of a limedealer named Anceau;

this dray contained three barrels of lime, which they placed beneath the piles of paving-stones: Enjolras raised the cellar trap, and all the widow Hucheloup's empty casks were used to flank the barrels of lime;

Feuilly, with his fingers skilled in painting the delicate sticks of fans, had backed up the barrels and the dray with two massive heaps of blocks of rough stone, blocks which were improvised like the rest and procured no one knows where.

The beams which served as props were torn from the neighboring house-fronts and laid on the casks.

When Bossuet and Courfeyrac turned round, half the street was already barred with a rampart higher than a man.

There is nothing like the hand of the populace for building everything that is built by demolishing.

Matelote and Ĝibelotte had mingled with the workers. Gibelotte went and came loaded with rubbish. Her lassitude helped on the barricade. She served the barricade as she would have served wine, with a sleepy air.

[100plats]

Lapin chasseur - gibelotte

Pas aussi bon que chez maman :-)

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 4.12.2 Preliminary Gaieties part 1

Chapters have been short lately, but this one is longer--and there’s a whole lot in it. Brickclub is planning to take a few days for it.

I always find it interesting that we learn that Joly and Lesgle “share everything” just a couple sentences before we learn that Joly is well-dressed and Laigle’s coat is so beat up they spend a fair amount of time joking about it.

On a practical level, they may be very different sizes, etc, and Joly may be making a special effort to follow Bahorel’s advice these last few years. But, I don’t know, it’s one of the interesting contradictory details that this book is so good at. They share everything, but Lesgle is homeless, and he kinda looks it. Joly’s rooms are Joly’s rooms, and Lesgle is staying there; it’s not described as an apartment that belongs to both of them. I don’t know, it’s an interesting choice.

If nothing else, it implies Lesgle is bigger than Joly in at least one dimension, because otherwise some time over the past four years he likely would have retailored himself some nicer hand-me-downs, the way Marius did with Courfeyrac’s green coat.

All that said, Laigle is the clear leader of the party trio, down to the fact that he’s the one who orders breakfast--though, if indeed anyone is paying (unlikely), it’s definitely not him.

He points out Grantaire’s drinking, with “Are you going to drink those two bottles” and "Do you have a hole in your stomach?" even though the amount Grantaire is drinking is so unsurprising that Gibelotte saw him and didn’t even inquire before bringing them.

I was confused for a moment about why Laigle could possibly be surprised by Grantaire’s drinking, but I think it’s clearly about how there’s supposed to be a revolution today, and Lesgle--who does have a leadership role in this trio--is saying, much more gently than people are going to be saying in a chapter or so, “Do you really need to be drinking all that right NOW?”

To which the answer is a very definitive yes, and that’s what much of the rest of the chapter is about.

I may be wrong--I often misread him--but Laigle seems to be being quietly elegiac of the three of them in this chapter. He extols the virtues of his beat-up coat as a way of praising old friends, which Joly agrees with with a comfortable pun. A little later he mentions the funeral procession and talks about the monks who used to live in the are, which he and Joly were linked to at the beginning of the chapter, as the bini. I get this sense of Laigle wanting to say all these sentimental things to them both. Saying it outright isn’t their style, so he couches it this way.

To which Grantaire answers, "Don't talk about monks. it makes me want to scratch." Which I suspect is Grantaire trying to quash the possibility that this breakfast is any kind of goodbye.

And with that, Grantaire starts talking and doesn’t let up for most of the rest of the chapter, so I’m going to leave him for tomorrow.

[fremedon]

Brickclub 4.12.2, “Preliminary Gaieties,” part 4? 5?

A brief wrap-up piggybacking off other people’s observations-- I don’t have anything to add to @everyonewasabird‘s last two posts, so I’m going to corral the evidence for an argument @pilferingapples has made about this whole chapter being a mirror of Valjean’s dinner with the bishop--

In both, we have a household (in this chapter, Joly and Bossuet) sitting down to their usual meal when an unexpected guest arrives (here Grantaire). Bossuet, even aside from his nickname, is aligned with the bishop--he’s clearly the leader of their little subgroup, and he’s been associated with radical but understated hospitality since he rescued Marius. A servant puts out wine for the guest, unasked for--it is specifically noted in Valjean’s dinner that Mme. Magloire adds a bottle of wine of her own initiative.

The guest is not wholly aligned with the hosts’ values, but is at a point of crisis and potential change. He comments on his host’s poverty (Bossuet’s tattered coat, another Myriel note). He explains what he knows about the sort of person his host is, without realizing that that’s who he’s talking to. Here, that’s Grantaire’s whole rant about revolutions and revolutionaries, whom he explicitly describes as Great Men--not seeming to notice that he’s sharing breakfast with the two most regular dude members of the Amis. In Valjean’s dinner with the bishop, it’s this bit:

He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is the cure who rules over the other cures, you understand. Pardon me, I say that very badly; but it is such a far-off thing to me! You understand what we are! He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it glittered in the bright light of midday. We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing us. We could not see very well. He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not hear. That is what a bishop is like.

A man haloed in gold, saying (presumably) great words too far away to hear; but all he could really take in was the mouths of the cannons.

The dinner is interrupted by a child in need of alms--here it’s Navet, on his own; in the dinner with the bishop it’s a poor woman begging with her child.

And the bishop-figure makes no overt attempt to win the guest over, but he does call for two candlesticks for the table. Here they’re mismatched, one a completely green copper holder and one a cracked carafe with a candle in its neck, brought by Gibelotte because the rainy day is dark even at noon. They’re not intrinsically valuable, but they don’t need to be to get Grantaire’s attention: “Who has fetched down the stars without my permission and put them on the table as candlesticks?”

[arrivisting]

Found a Les Mis space au I started for @soemily an age ago in my inbox when looking for something else:

There's not much room on the Corinth. The Musain was spacier. They never did this on the Musain, though, which seems like a waste now. It's strange how many things he never did seem like lost chances to Enjolras lately.

On the Corinth, Grantaire has a shelf-like bunk in the same room where half the crew sleep; Enjolras has a bunkroom of his own, but it's little more than a sunken space down a metal ladder, a little roomier than a coffin, almost tall enough to stand up in, but not much more. There are limits to what they can do in it. There are limits to what they can do, just in general.

"Jesus," Grantaire says, his hands tight around the edges of that ladder, kneeling in Enjolras's bed and leaving sharp indents with his knees in the memory foam that will still be there later, hours after he leaves. He groans when Enjolras pushes into him and grips the ladder harder; and takes it, and takes it, holding himself in place while Enjolras fucks into him with deep, steady strokes that get the job done as efficiently as possible. In the filtered light, his naked back is still dense with muscle, skin blue-white, like he’s dead already. -

The first time is after receiving the briefing. There's some causal link there; Enjolras won't deny it, but he didn't intend on it. This has never been anything he's planned, even now, when he's pinning Grantaire to the wall in the kitchen whenever no one else is around, or blowing him against the ion thruster in the engine room, or fucking him in the refresher later when they're trying to get the engine grease off.

The commons is where everyone can be found, most of the time, when the ship doesn’t need babysitting. Technically, someone should be in the pilot’s chair at all times; but in practice, once co-ordinates are set, the ship tends to itself until the descent needs to be plotted or the course changed. No one hand-flies starships these days. That’s cowboy stuff. Even the pods (Matelote and Gibelotte) barely need the touch of a human hand, as long as the human in question has a neural implant.

The mood is different after the briefing. Enjolras doesn’t say anything about the fact that this is going to be a Hail Mary, a victory that will be Pyrrhic if it’s victorious at all, a kamikaze snatch at glory out of despair. The ABC are his people, and they’re smart enough to know that without being told, and somehow, anyway, they return to their previous occupations afterwards, as though life can continue that simply, and that easily, inexorable as the movement of a planet in regular orbit. Feuilly writes. Combeferre reads, and so does Jehan. The bini dice; Musichetta flicks through reports, her brow furrowed. Courfeyrac paces like a caged exotic, his lips pressed together.  Bahorel disappears, off to the gym – an important concern on longer space journeys, because artificial grav isn’t as good as the real thing, and tone goes fast – probably to punch something.

Grantaire gets drunk.

Enjolras gets fucked up against the wall in the utility hallway once everyone else has gone to bed, the back of his head thudding against it; then on the floor, the raised treads in the metal leaving patterns pressed into his skin that should hurt, should matter; but nothing does, except the burn of Grantaire’s cock in him, a blaze of feeling like the distant light of a faraway nebula, streaked across the sky in unexpected brilliance