Courfeyrac was having a marvelous day. The sun was shining with all the force a ball of gas millions of miles away could produce, and the breeze obligingly counteracted the heat. He was looking in top form, too; cravat exquisitely tied, shirt (for once) impeccably ironed, coat spotless, trousers crisp. His newest hat effectively protected his eyes, so he was free from an unbecoming squint, and his hair was loosely pulled back in an attractive blue ribbon, to match his vest. His walking stick was newly polished and made very satisfying crunching sounds on the gravel. He had wheedled Combeferre into writing most of his essay for their Course de Civilisation Français, and had just spent a supremely enjoyable evening with his newest lady friend, Camille, who did not appear to have a last name, or any brains to get in the way of a pleasant disposition.

It was a Sunday, so Camille had prettily informed him that she had to go to Mass. This left the morning free for Courfeyrac, and he strolled aimlessly through the Tuileries gardens. He soon came upon Marius, who strode purposefully out of the garden, black hair ruffled by the slight breeze. He had polished his boots so that they gleamed blindingly, and Courfeyrac had to blink several times, before regaining the use of his eyes.

"Marius!" he called, waving his walking stick, and jogging towards his friend. "Where do you run in such haste? Parisians stroll!"

"Mass," Marius informed him crisply, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shabby black coat.

"I should have known, Monsieur L'Abbe. I suppose you go to the one on Sainte-Roche?"

"Yes." Marius was not, apparently, feeling very loquacious that morning, but, then again, Courfeyrac had 'borrowed' sixty francs from him two weeks before, in order to (unsuccessfully) woo a plump, pretty waitress, and still had no intention of paying Marius back soon.

Courfeyrac had not been to Mass in two months, always having been a bit... busy in the mornings, with his newest 'friend' or with classes. But Camille would be quite impressed that he went to Mass. Or he might find some pretty rosière to "reform" him. "I'll join you, Monsieur L'Abbe. My soul is in need of cleansing."

Marius looked a bit put-upon but managed a brief smile and told him they'd be late if they didn't hurry.

In fact, they were early. Marius solemnly crossed himself with holy water at the entrance and sat, contemplatively, in the back row. This suited Courfeyrac; he was able to observe each woman as they walked in.

Courfeyrac found it intensely amusing to keep a running commentary as Marius attempted to pray.

"That one -- very pretty, stunning green eyes... short neck though, and she walks as ponderously as an elephant. Marius, perhaps you'll like this one better. Black damask, stodgy bonnet-there's a nun in the making for you. You could be a reincarnated Abelard and Heloise."

"Courfeyrac," Marius hissed, horrified, as the young girl observed them with startlingly blue eyes. "You're going to get us thrown out!"

"Now, now," Courfeyrac said, mock reprovingly, "Is there any shame in admiring some of the loveliest of God's creations in His house? It's like visiting the Louvre and ignoring La Jaconde."

"She would interest you," Marius muttered, stifling a yawn wrathfully.

"I would think she would interest you!" Courfeyrac retorted innocently. "After all, it's said that Bonaparte hung her in his bedroom until Josephine got jealous and had him move the painting out."

Marius appeared torn between his devotion to Bonaparte and his exasperation towards Courfeyrac. "That wasn't the point."

Courfeyrac wasn't paying attention to him. "Ah! There's a beauty! Such graceful movement; such a lovely figure." The girl attempted to flutter her eyelashes coquettishly, and smiled at him, revealing a set of broken and discolored teeth. Courfeyrac managed a weak smile and quickly turned his attention to the next woman who walked in. "She's handsome. Rather regal, in fact, but her nose...." The woman sniffed indignantly, and swept by, fingering the aforesaid appendage uneasily.

"People can hear you, Courfeyrac," Marius informed him between yawns.

"Did you sleep at all, last night, Marius?" Courfeyrac grinned impudently. "I had never thought you'd break your self-imposed vows of chastity, but...."

"I was studying for the bar," Marius retorted fiercely, blushing heavily. "Then I had to translate several articles from English into French. I wish you wouldn't say such things, Courfeyrac."

"If wishes were horses..." Courfeyrac replied absently. "Mmm... that one has no grace at all. That one must be a dancer-I think I've seen her before... she's rather plain, up close. That one's passable-very pretty hair. Mmm... I've seen that one at the Comédie Français. Wonderful, really, and she reminds one of a nymph. Has a figure that would inspire Raphael." The actress glanced at him over her shoulder, was apparently pleased with what she saw and heard, and blew him a kiss. Courfeyrac winked at her roguishly, and she sashayed down the aisle, making sure to hold his gaze. It was, for Courfeyrac, a very agreeable sight.

Marius, meanwhile, was holding his face in his hands, moaning, "We'll be excommunicated, we'll be thrown out of the Church, no one will have anything to do with us-"

"We could always become Calvinists," Courfeyrac replied placidly.

"Calvinists!" Marius repeated, with the same tone of disgust he used when mentioning the British Duke of Wellington, who had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.

"Or Lutherans. If we really felt rebellious we could join the Church of England."

Marius looked apocalyptic and began to splutter incoherently. He was spared the necessity of calming down enough to form an articulate reply by the start of the Mass.

The altar boys walked in solemnly, looking half terrified that they'd drop the Communion plate and chalice. Courfeyrac was quite sure he heard Marius sigh, "Mon Dieu" in relief. He wasn't positive, however, as Marius studiously ignored him for the entirety of the Mass, even when the priest droned on about 1 Corinthians 13, and Courfeyrac whispered, "St. Paul is all well and good, but he has missed out on the best aspects of love."

Courfeyrac half-heartedly took Communion, wondering if God would strike him down for taking it merely because he was feeling rather peckish, and improvised his way through the hymns, to the chagrin of Marius, who moved farther away, and the amusement of the two women in front of him, who giggled and twittered like sparrows.

Once the Mass was over, Courfeyrac had become rather bored and suggested they go for a stroll, hoping to become better acquainted with the actress he had winked at.

Marius made a great show of pretending to be suddenly aware that Courfeyrac existed. Courfeyrac found this intensely amusing.

"Well, Marius, I'm glad you've decided to exist on Earth once more."

Marius shot him a glare. "Doesn't your soul ever long to dance in the stars?"

"Feeling poetic, aren't we?" Courfeyrac had made it to the door, and held it open for two very charming young ladies, who cooed a 'thank you' as he tipped his hat.

Marius looked rather put-upon. "Did you even listen to the Mass?"

"Some bits." Courfeyrac continued to hold open the door for an old man and his wife, and raised his eyebrows at Marius. "Shall we depart soon, or shall I become the permanent door-stop?"

Looking properly indignant, Marius replied, "Do as you like-I must go to Confession."

"After Mass?" Courfeyrac inquired, somewhat dumbfounded. "What deadly sin could you, Monsieur L'Abbe, possibly have committed? And why do you go to Confession at all? The priests can always black-mail you."

Marius was speechless.

Courfeyrac tipped his hat at the green-eyed girl with the short neck. She simpered at him and fluttered her eyelashes to the extent that she appeared to have an eye-infection.

"Priests... don't ... they can't... they are bound by their vows," Marius spluttered incoherently, apparently having lost his ability to speak once again.

"Go to Confession by all means," Courfeyrac replied, searching for 'his' actress in the crowds of people. Then, stuck with a brilliant idea, as a pair of pleasantly plump sisters clutching rosaries regarded them warily, Courfeyrac added soberly, "I'll go with you. In fact, we should all go to Confession. I'm glad, Marius, that you reminded me. One should always confess one's sins, so one can be forgiven."

The girls looked very pleased with his answer and Courfeyrac flashed them his most charming smile.

Marius was once more speechless. Courfeyrac found this intensely entertaining, and decided that his main entertainment of the day would be to see how many times he could make Marius flabbergasted with shock and/or horror. Marius had the strangest, most indignant facial expression when he was speechless and it diverted Courfeyrac to no end.

Marius walked into the nearest confession box; his ears a vibrant shade of red, and Courfeyrac, leaning close to the door heard a murmur of voices.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession."

"And what have you done since then, my child?"

Courfeyrac leaned in a bit eagerly, to see if Marius had actually done anything sinful.

"I have been very angry Father. Also, I envied Aristotle."

Courfeyrac hid in laugh in what he thought was a rather convincing cough.

The priest's voice sounded loud and a bit strangled. "Envied Aristotle the philosopher, my son?"

Marius's voice dropped to a low hum, and Courfeyrac couldn't hear any more. He twirled his walking stick around to amuse himself, and winked at a pretty blonde in white lawn. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, and looked as if she'd come straight out of convent school.

She blushed at him and suddenly found her shoes very interesting.

"Say three 'Hail Mary's, one 'Our Father', and say a prayer for me," the priest commanded, louder. "God bless you, my child."

Marius emerged from the confession box, and looking rather happy, pulled out a rosewood rosary. The girl in white looked at him shyly from underneath the brim of her bonnet and blushed even more furiously than before.

In typical Marius fashion, Marius blushed, studiously ignored her, nodded at Courfeyrac, and, looking almost cheerful, walked to the altar to pray.

Courfeyrac, slightly nettled that Marius had managed to interest the girl more than he did, entered the confessional and dutifully said, "Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

The priest was silent, as if waiting for him to go on. Courfeyrac, who was taking impish delight in vexing people that day, twiddled his thumbs and calmly observed the priest through the grate. He had graying brown hair, brown eyes hidden behind glasses, and a kind, round face, that reminded Courfeyrac of a brioche freshly baked by Madame Hucheloup.

The priest eventually gave up and asked, "And what have you done, my son?"

"Oh, what haven't I done?" Courfeyrac sighed melodramatically.

"What... sins have you committed, my son?" the priest inquired, not unkindly.

"The usual," Courfeyrac replied breezily.

The priest waited for Courfeyrac to continue. Courfeyrac smiled at him charmingly.

"Go on, my son," the priest commanded him, looking slightly perplexed.

Courfeyrac looked heavenward. "Oh, Father! I don't mean to bore you, but the list is... so regrettably similar to everyone else's that I am ashamed to say them, for fear you'll fall asleep out of sheer boredom."

The priest was stumped. "My son, the point of a confession is to confess your sins."

"I know, Father," Courfeyrac rejoined soberly. "It grieves me, however, to taint a heart as pure as yours with the record of my various, sinful misdeeds."

"You have... been proud?" The priest was switching tactics now, and looked so befuddled that Courfeyrac had to choke back a laugh.

"Oh no, Reverend Father," Courfeyrac murmured faux humbly, once he could control his mirth. "I have been... let's see... there were seventeen deadly virtues, weren't there? I'm sure I've committed at least five of them, and humility is high on the list! It charms all the grisettes, you know, when you whisper that you don't deserve them."

The priest appeared to be wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Courfeyrac was delighted. "There are seven holy virtues, my son, to protect against the seven deadly sins. And... grisettes?"

"Oh yes," Courfeyrac replied, with mock gravity. "I love them all tenderly Father."

"My son...." The priest paused, as if baffled by Courfeyrac. "Do you... are you suffering from the sin of lust?"

"I'm not suffering!" Courfeyrac protested indignantly.

"Oh Merciful Father," the priest sighed, sounding miserable. "My son, the pleasures of the flesh are empty, and true happiness can be found only in turning from earthly joys in order to receive spiritual ones."

"Oh, and, Father, I have also been very vain, but does it count when one dresses nicely for others?" Courfeyrac leaned back and grinned.

"What? No... I mean... yes." The priest was getting very flustered. "Young man, I've heard some things in my day, but...."

Courfeyrac held up a gloved hand. "Let's see... there's sloth, but sleeping in isn't too terrible when one rests merely so that one doesn't wake one's bedside companion; envy, but if it's only sighing half-heartedly after a fine pair of ankles to add to one's collection, that can't be all bad; gluttony doesn't count for wine, I'm sure; I hardly ever get angry, except at the king; and any grisette you talk to will say that I'm the most generous fellow you'll ever meet."

The priest took off his glasses and wiped sweat off his forehead, looking alarmed. "My son, you suffer grievously from Vanity and Lust. Ask God for forgiveness, and say three 'Hail Mary's, three 'Our Father's and three 'Glory Be's. And pray for a repentant heart."

"God provided these earthly pleasures for men to enjoy," Courfeyrac argued, remembering why he liked law school so much. "Hence, these things are gifts from God to be savored and appreciated. I'll thank the man in the clouds for the blessings, but repent?" Courfeyrac looked at him sternly. "That's like telling your father you hate your first glass of port."

"He provided them as temptations," the priest countered despairingly.

Courfeyrac smirked, knowing he was winning the debate. "Not temptations, father-they're gifts, created by the invisible man in the sky. And if we don't enjoy them, indulge in them, per say, what kind of 'children of God' would we be? Ungrateful, spoilt ones, 'fit only to be thrown out and trampled under the feet of men'."

The priest rubbed his temples. "My son-"

Courfeyrac took out his pocket watch. "Oop! I'm late! Thank you for the ever-so-edifying chat, Papa, and I'll be off!"

"I'll pray for you, my son," the priest replied wearily. "I think you shall need it." He half-heartedly made the sign of the cross and dully droned, "Bless you, my son."

Courfeyrac readjusted the angle of his hat and marched out of the confessional as if it had been a courtroom, and twirled his walking stick happily. There was nothing, Courfeyrac was sure, save perhaps the company of a pretty grisette, more satisfying than defying someone's expectations.

He came across Marius, who, looking as fresh as the proverbial daisy, quietly crossed himself and stood, stowing his rosary in his pocket.

"Ready to go?" Courfeyrac inquired, twirling his cane.

Marius blinked at him. "Don't you have penance?"

Courfeyrac thought about this a moment before deciding that if he did have penance, he didn't particularly care about it. "No."

Marius gaped at him. "Really?"

Courfeyrac sighed and glanced heavenward, as if asking God for patience. "Marius, Marius, Marius... penance is for people who find more redeeming qualities in organized religion than I."

"Then why...?" Marius shook his head. "Courfeyrac, if you don't... well... why did you take Communion, then?"

"Was feeling a bit hungry," Courfeyrac replied idly.

"But," Marius protested inarticulately, "the transubstantiation of the elements; the blood of Christ, the body of Christ-"

Courfeyrac sighed melodramatically and placed a hand on Marius's shoulder. "Ah, Marius, let me impart some wisdom to you. As a prelate in Rome said to Martin Luther, 'Panis es, et panis manebis', or 'Bread thou art and bread thou shalt remain.'"

Marius was quiet a moment, and then looked up at him sorrowfully. "I feel sorry for you, Courfeyrac." With that, Marius walked out of the church, hands in his pockets, eyes lifted heavenward, as if searching for a place to build castles in the air. Several young girls, waiting to confess, eyed him from underneath their eyelashes.

Courfeyrac threw up his hands in bewilderment. He would admit, Marius was almost disgustingly pretty, and girls found melancholy, poetic dreamers almost as interesting as flirtatious, smart-aleck law students, but... really! Marius, who he, Courfeyrac had watched over, found grisettes for (though Marius fled from all of them in terror, mumbling about his clothing), found lodgings for, found a job for... was sorry for him? If Marius was left on his own in Paris, he would end up sleeping in the Jardin de Luxembourg, sheltering in some castle in the air he'd daydreamed, and living off supposedly ubiquitous poetic fancies.

Well! Who knew Marius had a sense of humor?

Very amused by his new discovery, Courfeyrac sauntered out of the church with the grace of a satisfied tabby-cat. Once outside, he blinked a moment to adjust his eyes to the sunlight and fixed the rakish tilt of his hat. While he was doing so, he saw the willowy actress who had winked at him sitting in a nearby café, frowning prettily at the pages of an open book. Courfeyrac straightened his cravat and pulled on his gloves, sparing a last glance at the church behind him. It was really a pretty sort of building, made of sandstone and stained glass windows that the Revolution had not broken or claimed. Sweet incense drifted out on eddies of air and a painting of a wise-eyed Madonna stared out from the wall into the street.

Courfeyrac felt a twinge of uncertainty. The church meant nothing to him, that was true, and a pair of eyes gazing demurely from underneath long lashes interested him far more that any calm-faced mother, but... they obviously meant something to Marius. And Marius had looked so sure of himself, so faithful, so... strangely fulfilled.

"Pardonnez-moi," an elderly man murmured, hobbling down the steps of the church and disturbing Courfeyrac's musings. Courfeyrac shook his head. He was being absurd. The Catholic Church was just as corrupt as the monarchy (why else would the National Assembly seize church property?) and the so-called "faithful" were, he was sure, too blinded by ceremony and spiritual-sounding mumbo-jumbo to think rationally and realize they'd been duped.

Whistling cheerfully, Courfeyrac twirled his walking stick and decided that the actress looked rather lonely. As he ambled up the street and smiled charmingly at the actress, who studied him over the top of her book, Courfeyrac had a nagging feeling of doubt, and suddenly found himself wondering if Marius's faith had some truth after all.

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