Note: Yes, I reiterate, I own none of them.  But Combeferre's poem, alas, I'm ashamed to admit, is entirely mine.   

Combeferre frowned and stared down at the poem he was laboriously carving into one of the tables at the Café Musain.  "Her hair is cascade of flowing yellow; I drink my wine, its taste is mellow; her eyes are green like the leaves of trees, or a caterpillar of the Vanessa cardui species," it read so far.  This was all certainly true, but there seemed to be something lacking.

            Jean Prouvaire, recognizing in his face the familiar anguish of poetic composition, leaned over to read the lines.  His thin, dreamy features immediately assumed an expression of extreme agony, as if someone had punched him in the nose – although, in fact, if someone did punch him in the nose, it was unlikely he would notice.  "'Ferre," he said weakly.  "Um . . . it's a beautiful poem.  It really is.  It's just, just that –"

            Courfeyrac craned his neck from the other side, and immediately burst into guffaws.  What he said was indistinct through the manic laughter, but it sounded something like, "No wonder you're not getting any!"

            "Courfeyrac!" said Enjolras and Marius in unison.  They then turned to glare at each other.  Enjolras and Marius were not getting on these days.  Nobody had never quite understood the reason, but from all the impassioned shouting about red and black that went on, the general consensus was that it had something to do with a bitter game of checkers.

            "I don't see what's wrong with it," said Combeferre indignantly.  "It rhymes, doesn't it?"

            Feuilly, who had wandered over to see what all the hubbub was about, gave a low chuckle.  "Well, how would you like it if someone compared your eyes to a grasshopper?"

            Combeferre raised his eyebrows.  "Well, of course I wouldn't like it," he said briskly.  "It's completely inaccurate.  My eyes are gray; it would be far more appropriate to compare them to mealworms, or something of that nature.  Although," he added, in a more considering tone, "there are some caterpillars that are gray, if I remember right, so it wouldn't be too off the mark after all.  I'll have to look it up when I go to my class in Insect Researches and Metamorphoses."

            Feuilly sighed and shook his head.  "You're hopeless, ami," he said, and swung to a standing position, grabbing his leather bag of fans.  "Well, I'm off; I've got a couple of fans to deliver to special customers.  There's one the address is illegible for – it was ordered by a Monsieur LeRoi Sux -"

            "Oh," said Joly, red-faced, and hurried up.  "Erm . . . that one's mine."

            Courfeyrac, who had been on the verge of overcoming his amusement at Combeferre's poem, promptly fell off his chair and started rolling on the floor.

            "What?" protested Joly, grabbing a fan and hastily stowing it under his shirt.  From the brief glimpse Combeferre got, it looked like it was pink, with beads and a ribbon.  "I don't want to die of heat stroke.  Do you want to die of heat stroke?  Because it's a very real risk this time of year, and if you want to die of heat stroke, Courfeyrac, it can certainly be arranged, and –"

            "Oh, no, it's perfectly normal," said Feuilly, deadpan.  "And it's just coincidence that it happens to exactly resemble the one that a six-year-old girl ordered from me last week –"

            "And I bet she didn't die of heat stroke, either!" said Joly.  By this point, Bahorel and Grantaire had joined Courfeyrac on the floor, and Bossuet was trying to hide his grin behind a revolutionary pamphlet. 

            "I wouldn't laugh if I were you," said Joly, looking daggers at his roommate.  "Remember, I could tell them about –"

            "I'm not laughing," said Bossuet hastily.  "Not laughing, not laughing, not laughing, not –"

            At this, Courfeyrac got his giggles under control, with effort, sat up, and regarded them with interest.  "Go on, laugh," he encouraged Bossuet.  "I want to hear this."

            "All right, all right, enough," interrupted Feuilly.  "I've got to go deliver something to the vicinity of the Old Gorbeau House – catch you all later?"

            Combeferre's ears pricked up.  "Who exactly," he asked innocently, "needs a fan in the Old Gorbeau House?"

            This was enough incentive for everyone else to stop whatever else they were doing and start nudging each other and winking.  Everyone knew that Combeferre's mystery lady lived somewhere around the Old Gorbeau House.  (They also knew her name, her hair color, and just about everything else it was possible to know – Combeferre had tried his hardest to keep it a secret, but it was a bit pointless when he went around singing "Claque-Sue, Claque-Sue, I love you" as he went from class to class.)

            "Sorry," said Feuilly, with a knowing grin.  "It's another pink fan, ordered by a M. Montparnasse, in theory as a Valentine's day present for a Mlle Eponine, although judging from the look of the boy it might just as easily be a Valentine's day present for himself –"

            "I told him not to buy me things anymore!  And I hate pink!" came a voice from underneath Marius' chair.  Then, as everyone in the room did a double-take, the voice hastily added, "Um . . . I didn't say that.  I mean, nobody said that.  I mean, nobody's here.  Lalalalala, I'm a chair, I'm a chair, just a normal, everyday chair . . ."

            "Well, that was strange," said Feuilly.  "Anyways, I'm off.  Marius, you might want to consider hiring an exorcist."

            Combeferre hopped off his chair.  "I'll come with you anyways," he said, trying to look innocent.  For some reason, the name Montparnasse sounded terribly familiar.  "I could use the walk."

            Feuilly frowned.  "Haven't you got a class?"

            "Not for a while," said Combeferre.  "They need a new professor for my Theories of Basic Saintliness course – Professor Fauchelevant heard that Inspector Javert was in the building teaching his DARE class again, and handed in his resignation."

            "I maintain that he was an ex-boyfriend," added Courfeyrac, from the floor.  Everyone ignored him, of course.  Courfeyrac did this a lot.

            "Oh, he did?" asked Bahorel, looking disappointed.  "That's a shame – I made good money off of him.  All you had to do was bring a chimney sweep to class, and he'd start handing out the forty-sous pieces . . ."  He intercepted Enjolras' glare, and added hastily, "Which, of course, I spent on firepower for the Glorious Revolution!"

            "All right," said Feuilly, who had been shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.  "All right, very interesting story – now, Combeferre, if you're coming, let's go, before the table starts tap-dancing or something else happens to distract us.  I've got a deadline, you know."

            And, finally, they were off.