Combeferre nods. "I'll keep that in mind, of course, should I read it." It's a responsibility, possessing information that others believe to be private.
Then he frowns. "What do you mean, it may not be a memoir? Do you mean Hugo may have deliberately altered the story, rather than writing about anyone's memories?"
"Ha, I am sure Hugo edited a bit; any historian does. But I mean that the Hugo writing these memoirs may not be quite the Hugo of our world, in the way that Enjolras and Courfeyrac are not quite from our barricade...and then perhaps more." He thinks a moment. "Did you ever see Father Christmas, while he was here?"
Combeferre flinches. He'd forgotten, briefly, that Enjolras and Courfeyrac were from an 1832 barricade slightly divergent from his own, and that it had diverged thanks to their own efforts and Bossuet's. Not truly forgotten, of course, but it had slipped from the forefront of his mind.
It's eerie to think of. Combeferre doesn't especially enjoy eeriness.
"An alternative Hugo--from a time that no longer exists, because we changed it?" (Does that mean that Enjolras and Courfeyrac, in some theoretical way, no longer exist, since they're from a future whose past was changed?)
"No, I didn't see Father Christmas," Combeferre continues. Though he was both surprised and intrigued to learn of the old legend's existence.
"I saw him; he was built on a plumper model than the one we knew, but it was definitely him, magic and all. Now, allow that-- whatever the history behind his legend in our world-- he was not a real person, and certainly not prone to flight and reindeer and a magic bag of endless gifts. To us he was a story; yet he was here, and real."
"Are you saying...that this is a place where legends become real? Or that there are other worlds, where our legends are real, and they become our legends because...because of what? Travel between worlds?"
Combeferre is guessing now. It's fairly clear that Bahorel is driving at something. But Combeferre's not quite sure what yet.
Bahorel grins and leans forward. "Travel between worlds we know to be true, now-- at least for people. Could ideas travel too? Could every story have a true version somewhere-- like Father Christmas, wherever he normally resides-- and whispers of it bleed to other worlds?"
"It's not just him, of course; many of us seem to have stories of each other in some form, more or less --and sometimes much less--true." He stretches out a hand enough to swat at Combeferre's leg. "Come,then,you're the scientist; what do you think is happening?"
"Could ideas travel? Meaning--do ideas have physical substance of a kind, perhaps of...aether?" That sounds rather doubtful, almost medieval, but aether isn't the only option. Energy, perhaps. Electricity or magnetism. Combeferre has not read nearly enough about the physics of the future.
"As for what I think is happening--I think it must be that there are worlds in which there are--copies of us, or versions of us. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are proof of that. They continue to exist despite us having altered their past. They did not wink out of existence. Yet we exist too, you and I, sharing their past up to 1830, and then diverging afterwards. So..." Combeferre takes a breath. Speaking of any version of Enjolras or Courfeyrac winking out of existence is--a shock. Even in the hypothetical. Still, he presses on. "It seems to me that--perhaps our alterations in 1830 created a new world? So there are two worlds with different versions of us, one that the Enjolras and Courfeyrac here in Milliways hail from, and one that we hail from."
Combeferre looks at the ceiling, and then at Bahorel, knowing how mad he sounds. "And if there are two worlds, two sets of us--might not there be many worlds, many sets of everyone, including Victor Hugo? Though the question of how ideas travel from one to the other, well, that's not something I have any theory on just yet."
Prouvaire would, Combeferre knows with a sudden stab of pain. Prouvaire would have theories, or rather, he would have fancies. About poets, and mystics, and how they perceive dimensions beyond the ordinary.
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Then he frowns. "What do you mean, it may not be a memoir? Do you mean Hugo may have deliberately altered the story, rather than writing about anyone's memories?"
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It's eerie to think of. Combeferre doesn't especially enjoy eeriness.
"An alternative Hugo--from a time that no longer exists, because we changed it?" (Does that mean that Enjolras and Courfeyrac, in some theoretical way, no longer exist, since they're from a future whose past was changed?)
"No, I didn't see Father Christmas," Combeferre continues. Though he was both surprised and intrigued to learn of the old legend's existence.
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Combeferre is guessing now. It's fairly clear that Bahorel is driving at something. But Combeferre's not quite sure what yet.
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"It's not just him, of course; many of us seem to have stories of each other in some form, more or less --and sometimes much less--true." He stretches out a hand enough to swat at Combeferre's leg. "Come,then,you're the scientist; what do you think is happening?"
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"You are implying, if I understand you right, that the Victor Hugo who wrote Les Misérables is a Victor Hugo in a different world, a world in which you and I are like Father Christmas--ideas that have bled through."
Combeferre is captivated by this.
"As for what I think is happening--I think it must be that there are worlds in which there are--copies of us, or versions of us. Enjolras and Courfeyrac are proof of that. They continue to exist despite us having altered their past. They did not wink out of existence. Yet we exist too, you and I, sharing their past up to 1830, and then diverging afterwards. So..." Combeferre takes a breath. Speaking of any version of Enjolras or Courfeyrac winking out of existence is--a shock. Even in the hypothetical. Still, he presses on. "It seems to me that--perhaps our alterations in 1830 created a new world? So there are two worlds with different versions of us, one that the Enjolras and Courfeyrac here in Milliways hail from, and one that we hail from."
Combeferre looks at the ceiling, and then at Bahorel, knowing how mad he sounds. "And if there are two worlds, two sets of us--might not there be many worlds, many sets of everyone, including Victor Hugo? Though the question of how ideas travel from one to the other, well, that's not something I have any theory on just yet."
Prouvaire would, Combeferre knows with a sudden stab of pain. Prouvaire would have theories, or rather, he would have fancies. About poets, and mystics, and how they perceive dimensions beyond the ordinary.
He does not say as much to Bahorel.