"I heard she could wrestle a bear!" Gavroche sat on the table, while a few of Les Ami resided in their chairs. Courferac gave such a grun that his glasses jumped up his face.
"With her 'bare' hands?! Hah!" he snickered at his own pun, which coaxed a giggle from the wee boy and a terrible groan from the rest.
"That was terrible, mon ami," Johan laughed, his bald head growing ruddy from all the drinking he'd done.
The walls of the ABC cafe were once a brilliant red, the color of the blood of angry men. Age, wear, tear, smoke and sunlight had washed it down to a soft, nearly feminine raspberry. The tables and chairs were mixed and matched, along with the waitresses. They ranged from pretty little outlets for patrons' teasing to haggard, batty witches that most dare not look in the eye. Joly, feeling bad, left anonymous notes of praise and fancy to the homely ladies, feeling that even the ugliest women deserved love.
The floor creaked so loud in some places that sitting at the wrong table could leave you screaming your order at a server. Not as if they couldn't guess your order by looking at your face, however. It was a cafe where everybody knew your name.
The boys started exchanging legends, and eventually it landed on The Angel of Patria. How to describe the Angel of Patria...
Folks say that she pick-pocketed the rich and gave to the little gamine that lurked the street, equally hungry for love as they were food. Men followed her in herds, leaving gifts at her doorstep (most of which cost weeks of salary.) Both an angel and a saint, a lover and a loner, a warm cup of tea and a cold fish, the Angel of Patria was sometimes all Les Ami could speak of.
"I swear I saw her!" Gavroche piped up, trying to impress his older friends.
" 'Spechly when we lived 'neath the bridge!"
Courferac shrugged, patting Gav's head.
"We've crossed that bridge, little friend."
This pun was met with a clean smack to the back of the head.
"She gave me cakes and meat pies. Even in the bitter cold, she came at the least once a week." Gav smiled in triumph.
The door downstairs opened, letting the draf and flurries bluster up to the friends of the ABC. If you watched the stairs, you could watch blonde culrs bop up them, until at the top came an angel in his own right; the leader Enjolras. He stood sturdy and strong, the ency of many men and the dream of many women. It's not as if he cared much, however. Enjolras cared only for mother France, and was married to the revolution.