Jeanne readjusts the child she carries on her hip, then sits on a bench in the park to nurse the babe.

Grantaire meanders up the path, idly kicking at pebbles. Glancing up, he squints at the figure on the bench, then grins crookedly and sidesteps to come up behind her. The brat.

Jeanne tweaks her clothing with a sigh, patting the child on the back to comfort it.

Grantaire taps her on both shoulders lightly. "Hey, madame, what are you doing out here all alone?"

Jeanne jumps and yelps. She turns quickly, looking hunted, then relaxes. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she asks as the babe starts to squall. "Come, sit with me," she invites in a much more pleasant tone. "It's good to see you."

Grantaire chuckles, tickled as a small boy to have scared her, and swings around the bench to drop down beside her. "And you. How've you been keeping yourself?"

Jeanne jiggles the baby to hush it. "Ah, you know, same as always. Another year, another child, another mouth to feed." She pushes her hair away from her forehead. "And you? Improving yourself in Paris's wonderful cafes?"

Grantaire agrees without a flicker, "That's right. Educational." He puts out a hand to stroke the baby's downy hair. "God, how old's he now? I haven't seen you in an age."

"Eight months. Heaven knows, it seems longer." She looks at the baby, really, for the first time in what is probably weeks. "Poor little thing. I wonder if he'll grow up like his uncle."

He looks elaborately horrified at that. "Poor little thing indeed. Perish the thought."

Jeanne laughs and reaches out to ruffle his hair much as he tousled the babe. "Come now, it isn't that bad, is it?"

Grantaire grins lopsidedly at her. "One hopes he'll have more sense. Damn sure hope he'll be better-looking. With all his maman's charm and tact."

She smiles a little at that. "If he has your wit, that's enough of a gift for me. His papa's not the loveliest man, so we'll just have to see how that turns out, won't we?" Jeanne kisses the top of the baby's head. "A good brain will make up for any ugly face."

"I'll have to take that on faith," he says gravely, and leans back on the bench. "How's the other brats?"

Jeanne shrugs. "Well enough. They get sick, they get better. You know how it is."

Grantaire smiles gently, with the quiet wry amusement her apathy always seems to inspire in him. "Jean lose that tooth yet?"

"Ah, yes. It was quite a relief. It's so unpleasant when they insist on showing you how they can move the thing with their tongues." She looks at him. "I seem to remember a boy of my acquaintance who was most fond of that."

He looks as meltingly innocent as only he can. "I wonder who that could be."

Jeanne chuckles. "You wouldn't remember him, I suppose. His name was Francois. I wonder whatever became of him."

"Oh, him. Probably fell in with bad company." His eyes twinkle.

Jeanne's mouth twitches. "Ah, I don't think so. He seemed a sensible lad."

Grantaire grins. "I must be thinking of someone else, then." Idly he aims a tickle at the baby's belly.

"Perhaps. How are your friends, for that matter?"

Grantaire shrugs lightly. "Much as usual. Unruly, noisy, hopelessly idealistic, and full of puns."

Jeanne smiles wistfully. "That sounds like fun."

Grantaire reaches out to tuck two fingers under her chin. "I should introduce you. You'd be the belle of the Cafe Musain." And it'd really annoy Enjolras to see a woman back there. "They'd adore you."

Jeanne blushes and looks away. "I haven't the time." She strokes her little boy's hair. "I'm an old mother, what would a bunch of college boys want with me?"

Grantaire expostulates, out of habit, "You're not old, Jeannette, don't be ridiculous."

Jeanne laughs. "Ah, maybe not in years, but I wouldn't bring my baby into a cafe with your comrades if you paid me to do it."

Grantaire chuckles. "Silly girl. They'd dote on him. Prouvaire would stop just short of cooing over him."

Jeanne raises an eyebrow. "Maybe someday, then."

Grantaire grins. "I'll hold you to that." He slouches a little more comfortably in his seat. "You have to get out more, girl."

"If I wasn't so busy, I would." She shrugs. "It's all right. Life is life, whether I spend it at home with my children or in some wretched cafe with you and your friends."

Grantaire protests, "They aren't /all/ wretched."

Jeanne laughs quietly. The baby coos when she jiggles. "Aren't they? I suppose I shall have to meet them to believe that."

"Should introduce you to Combeferre," he says. "You'd get on together. He's a gentleman, is Combeferre."

Jeanne asks, "Is he? What is he doing, hanging about you, then? It's not as if our family is all that high-born, after all. No true blue-blood gentleman would be seen with me, or with you."

Grantaire chuckles. "I use the term advisedly. He's a gentleman, meaning he doesn't mind mixing with rabble. Or at least doesn't let on that he does. You'd like him. But if Combeferre frightens you, you could always talk to Feuilly."

"Oh? What's he like?"

He quirks a grin. "Ordinary."

Jeanne's eyebrows lift. "Maybe I'd like him, then. When is he normally about? Is he a student like the rest of your lot?"

Grantaire flicks an amused glance at her. "Actually not, though God knows he's got his nose in a book as often as the others do. Terribly nice fellow. Quiet."

Jeanne looks more interested. "A real honest-to-goodness working man? He must be mad to spend time with your band of hotheads." She grins, lessening the insult. "Perhaps you're right, and I ought to meet him."

Grantaire protests perfunctorily, "They're not /my/ band of hotheads," and then, "I think you should. I think you'd get along. Feuilly's easy to take." And he's another person the R doesn't think gets out enough, but he doesn't mention that.

Jeanne looks at the baby in her arms, and thinks of the girl who's watching the rest of her brood. "Perhaps I could go now, for a while."

A slow grin blossoms. "That's an idea. I expect he'd be around."

Jeanne thinks a few moments longer, then stands up. "All right, let's go, then."

Grantaire's grin widens. "Splendid." He unfolds to his feet, and offers an arm with great ceremony.

Jeanne takes it with her free arm. "Where are we going?"

Grantaire pauses, considering. "It's what, Saturday? Rue St. Michel, probably."

"All right. That's not too far."

"Not at all," he agrees, and sets off.

Jeanne walks along with him.

Grantaire guides his sister through the door, and as Louison is handy, aims a tickle at that longsuffering girl's ribs. "/Good/ afternoon, dear. Who's in?"

Louison jumps and skitters away a few steps before she realizes that it's just that Grantaire again, and if she complains too much he might leave and then how would Mistress sell the wine? "M'sieur Prouvaire, m'sieur Feuilly, and m'sieur Etienne." She bobs a little curtsey. "Two bottles, m'sieur?" It's the traditional question.

"Marvelous," says Grantaire gaily, and then shoots her a look at the last. "That," he adds mildly enough, "might be excessive."

Jeanne looks from Louison the tormented to Grantaire. "Will it be all right, then?" she asks, almost timidly. She isn't afraid, because she has faith that her dear brother is quite accepted here, but she doesn't know how well she will fit.

Louison nods. "One, then?"

Grantaire waves a hand at the poor girl. "All right, very well." He casts a reassuring smile at Jeanne, and steers her toward the back room.

Jeanne allows herself to be steered. She looks around as they walk, observing the long hallway. "It's a bit secluded, isn't it?"

Grantaire says cheerfully, "That's the point, cherie."

"Ah, I see," though she doesn't, quite, yet.

Grantaire grins at her, and swings the door open with a grand gesture. "After you, madame."

Jeanne walks in, and looks around. She notes the map on the wall, the three slightly shabby men at one table, and the mostly empty room. "Bonjour," she calls out merrily, since Francois seemed so happy that these men were here.

Feuilly is slung in a chair in his deceptively lazy-looking way, listening to Prouvaire and Combeferre's friendly debate. He glances up at the feminine voice, and his dark eyebrows raise sharply.

Combeferre turns around at the greeting. "Bonjour, Madame," he says, smiling in a welcoming way, but slightly confused. What is a girl with a baby doing in this masculine club?

Prouvaire looks over, startled, but offers a diffident smile.

Grantaire sketches a bow, brazenly unabashed. "Gentlemen, my sister, Madame Tirmont. She wanted to meet tomorrow's visionary heroes. Jeanne: Combeferre, Feuilly, and the amiable Prouvaire."

Jeanne bobs a little curtsey, balancing the baby carefully. "It's nice to meet you all."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "Your sister, Francois?" To Jeanne, he says, "It's good to meet you. Come, sit by us. It's a large room if you're all the way across it."

"My sister, yes. I do have them." Grantaire's tone is perhaps a touch acerbic, though he doesn't lose the smile.

Jean Prouvaire, cued thus, stands a little hastily to pull out a chair for her, still looking bemused.

"Pleased," Feuilly murmurs, with a polite dip of the head.

Jeanne sits with a smile. "Merci, Prouvaire, was it?" She winks at him. "If you're amiable around my brother, you must have the patience of a saint."

Prouvaire blushes, but he chuckles. "Ah, you know, we all band together to withstand him."

Grantaire snorts quietly, and shakes his head, moving to kick out a chair.

Combeferre solemnly says, "It certainly takes more than one person. We must all work together, or we fall prey." He grins at his tablemates, then sticks out his tongue to make the baby laugh. "You have a lovely child, Madame Tirmont. What is his name?"

Feuilly's eyes light with amusement, but he holds his tongue, for the moment.

Jeanne shakes her head slightly. This is the gentleman? She answers with a smile, "His name is Robert. He's eight months old."

Combeferre nods. "He's a big boy."

"He is, isn't he?" agrees Prouvaire, dropping back into his own seat and smiling at mother and child. Grantaire wasn't far wrong when he mentioned cooing. There's a faint but detectable aura of sentiment around our Jehan.

"Take it from me; I've had to carry him all around Paris." Jeanne looks at her brother with amused annoyance. "He insisted I come and meet you all. Today. Tomorrow wasn't soon enough."

Grantaire objects, "You were the one who said today."

"Only because you were so insistent." She shakes her head. "At any rate, here I am." She strokes the baby's hair. "So, you sit and talk and drink here. Is it fun?"

"No," Feuilly puts in, deadpan, "but someone has to do it."

Jeanne laughs at that. "It's such a burden, I am sure."

Combeferre chuckles. "Not at all." He realizes that he has been slightly remiss in his usual round of pleasantries, and this is a woman, if not strictly a lady, so he should have been even better behaved than normal. "Would you like something to drink?"

Prouvaire chuckles, and offers, "The tea's decent."

Jeanne glances over at her brother, again. "No, thank you, m'sieur Combeferre. I'll have a glass of Francois's wine."

Grantaire, slouched with his usual lack of grace in his chair, lets this slide off him. "Good idea."

Louison bustles in with the bottle and a glass, and sets it on Grantaire's table. "Here you are, m'sieur."

Feuilly grins a bit.

"Grand," says Grantaire, and slides a coin over the table to save having to remember on the way out. "And what, pray tell, were you three chattering about?"

Combeferre shrugs. "Ah, have you heard about the latest debacle in the courts?"

Grantaire shifts in his seat. "I have not."

Combeferre shakes his head. "Ask Courfeyrac about it. He was in here telling us, and I'll lose some of the details."

Feuilly advises brother and sister, "Vilely complicated. You don't want to know."

Jeanne looks from one to the other. "Then I shan't ask."

"Now, Feuilly," Prouvaire protests mildly.

Grantaire agrees, "Probably not." He sits up a bit to fill the glass for Jeanne. "I'll never know what the fascination is."

Combeferre spreads his hands. "It's just something to talk about. Debating is enjoyable."

"If you know what the--" Feuilly glances at Jeanne. "--what you're debating about. I can /do/ history. Legal quibbles, no." He doesn't sound all that bothered, though.

Jeanne looks curiously at Feuilly and cradles the baby on her lap. Robert has fallen asleep. "Are you censoring yourself for me, Monsieur?" She laughs. "I've used worse words than you think, I'm sure."

Grantaire ducks his head. He's not laughing. No.

Combeferre grins broadly and looks away. He's either having trouble breathing, or he's chuckling.

Jeanne looks steadily at Feuilly. "Really, I'm not one of your comrades, but I am not a fainting flower."

Give yourself a gold star, Jeanne; you've made the unflappable Feuilly blush. "I see," he says blandly. "I'll remember."

Prouvaire blinks at Jeanne, caught between dismay and amusement.

Jeanne asks rhetorically, "How could I be delicate in this city?"

"Point," concedes Feuilly, recovering his equilibrium.