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Following his conversation with Lecter, Bahorel does indeed go to the Library. It takes some negotiating of the shelves-- really relevant books always seem inclined to hide-- but he does find it.
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. 18...62?
Thirty years. That at least makes it seem more likely; a man might well change his opinions in that time, especially when they're wrong.
Bahorel flips through the table of contents. Book, Volume, Chapter....
Well that's not very subtle, is it?
He reads his friends' introductions, snickering at the description of Enjolras, smiling fondly at the reminder of Combeferre's studies. The mention of Prouvaire's protectiveness toward Chenier is not surprising; Prouvaire was close to the literary circles, it would be stranger if Hugo hadn't known him. He frowns a bit over Courfeyrac-- whoever 'Tholomyes' might have been, his friends are themselves, not some imitation of utter strangers.
He rather likes his own description. Really, he should make copies. Perhaps it would fit on a calling-card.
He skims the rest of the book, flipping back and forth. They're not in it too much; but what is there...
what is there is enough to need more careful reading. He's been making his own study of the days around their death, along his own lines; there are things that need checking.
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo. 18...62?
Thirty years. That at least makes it seem more likely; a man might well change his opinions in that time, especially when they're wrong.
Bahorel flips through the table of contents. Book, Volume, Chapter....
Well that's not very subtle, is it?
He reads his friends' introductions, snickering at the description of Enjolras, smiling fondly at the reminder of Combeferre's studies. The mention of Prouvaire's protectiveness toward Chenier is not surprising; Prouvaire was close to the literary circles, it would be stranger if Hugo hadn't known him. He frowns a bit over Courfeyrac-- whoever 'Tholomyes' might have been, his friends are themselves, not some imitation of utter strangers.
He rather likes his own description. Really, he should make copies. Perhaps it would fit on a calling-card.
He skims the rest of the book, flipping back and forth. They're not in it too much; but what is there...
what is there is enough to need more careful reading. He's been making his own study of the days around their death, along his own lines; there are things that need checking.
