#sliding in under the wire with a christmassy fic

[benjaminmoorepaint]

the cake election

As his lieutenants filed into the backroom of the café Musain, Enjolras had an inkling that this would not be a particularly productive meeting—it being the last of the year, as many of his friends would be leaving Paris to spend Christmas at home. This assumption was immediately validated when Courfeyrac strode in with a magnificent pastry cake.

“Where did you get that?” Prouvaire exclaimed. “Surely you didn’t make it yourself.”

Courfeyrac placed it on the central table. “A friend of mine, Jeanette, gave it to me because they won’t be selling them officially until next month. She’s an excellent baker—works in the bakery on the Rue Saint-Jacques.”

“A friend?” Bahorel said innocently.

“This week, a friend—next week, who knows?”

Grantaire, already in the merriest stage of drunkenness, piped up from his corner: “There’s nothing better than a girl who can bake, you need nothing else in your life if you have one, she fulfills all your needs. Every day I see a girl who passes in front of my apartment with two loaves. The very prettiest sort. I never pay her any mind, but she smiles at me each day when as she walks by. If I were a free man you’d never see me again. Gentlemen, I’m afraid Courfeyrac shall be leaving your ranks soon, as he will be far too distracted by his panem et circenses—he’ll no longer care for your Hébert, your Danton, your—” he gestured vaguely with his bottle.

“Grantaire, I don’t think you even make sense to yourself,” Courfeyrac scolded.

“You are derailing the meeting,” Enjolras said. “I had hoped to address our allies in the Rue de Charonne.”

“I have it on good authority that they are laying low this week on account of the raid at the wine-shop,” Courfeyrac replied. “Besides, do you want cake or not?”

Enjolras blinked. “I want cake,” he said.

“Good man.” Courfeyrac took out his pocketknife and sliced the cake into nine pieces.

The cake was, admittedly, very good, and politics were forgotten for a few minutes as they ate.

“There’s a bean in the cake,” said Enjolras suddenly, “and I nearly broke my tooth on it.”

“Hm. Perhaps that’s why she gave it to me for free,” Courfeyrac said.

Laigle threw up his hands. “It’s a galette des rois,” he exclaimed, “Obviously.”

“Not like any I’ve ever eaten,” said Combeferre. “A brioche des rois is a…brioche, shaped like a crown, with candied fruit.”

“Right,” said Joly, “but it’s called a coque des rois.”

“Reiaume,” said Bahorel.

“Tortell,” supplied Grantaire.

“Anyway,” said Jean Prouvaire, “Enjolras got the bean in his cake, which means he is king for the day.”

This proclamation was met with an uproar of laughter.

“Absolutely not,” said Enjolras. “I’ll have no part in this.”

“You have to. The bean chose you.”

“The bean chose—” Enjolras dropped his fork. “Would you endure the divine right of kings? Should we suffer Charles X because he was born a Bourbon? I have not the merit nor the desire to be king. Only chance, or in this case, the bean, decrees it so.”

“It’s only a jest,” said Laigle.

“It’s time-honored tradition,” said Prouvaire. “In the Middle Ages they would have a king of fools to lead the revelry during Christmastide.”

“And,” added Combeferre, “if we are having a king cake we ought to have a king. One naturally follows the other.”

Enjolras raised his hand to silence them. “An election, then. We shall choose our king freely among ourselves. Citizens, let us show our convictions even in jest.”

“An election!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “A capital idea.” He picked up his hat and placed it in the center of the table, then tore a piece of paper into strips. “I will arbitrate. Place your ballots here.”

Once everyone had deposited their ballots into the hat, Courfeyrac tallied them up. “Eight votes for Enjolras,” he announced. “One vote for Grantaire, which is in Enjolras’s hand, if I am not mistaken.”

Enjolras looked vexed. “You can’t dispute the results of a fair and free election,” Feuilly reprimanded.

“You voted for me?” Grantaire gravely put his hand to his heart. “I am deeply touched by your display of faith. Deeply touched.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I could think of no one better to play the king of fools.”

“Better to be the king of fools than a king’s fool,” Grantaire said before taking another swig from his nearly-empty bottle.

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it.

“Best of all,” said Laigle, “this means you must bring us a cake next year.” Joly and Grantaire cheered.

Enjolras shook his head in exasperation, though he was not truly annoyed. He looked out the window. It was snowing outside, and he felt very warm inside, with his friends making merry around him and the fire crackling in the corner. Combeferre and Courfeyrac debated politics, Bahorel and Prouvaire talked about theater, the remaining trio set up a game of cards. He was content to listen to them. He never understood what Prouvaire and Bahorel said about art and beauty and never would, because here were all the beautiful things, he thought, all the beautiful things in the world.