Enjolras had believed himself beyond surprise when it came to Bahorel’s apartment. He’d entered Bahorel’s apartment many times in the past to find all manner of things: people of both sexes in various states of undress and in carnal positions Enjolras had never heard of nor wished to hear of; Bahorel engaged in experimental cookery involving eels, truffles, or Hungarian spices; Bahorel assembling or hiding weapons; Bahorel, Feuilly, and a few others singing Polish and Czech songs, while Bahorel thumped out a drum-beat on a pan; Bahorel in the grip of some unfamiliar intoxicant, and in the company of a weird and ill-dressed assortment of artists, including, of course, Jean Prouvaire; and, on one memorable occasion, Bahorel and a burly friend wrestling a pig, and losing.
It was understandable that he’d believed himself beyond surprise, and yet Enjolras was proven wrong upon entering Bahorel’s apartment to see him in the frock and collar of a priest.
“It hasn’t caught fire, I can’t think why not,” said Bahorel. “Don’t look so shocked. Why would I not profane priestly garments with my touch?”
“Aren’t you the one who tells me a man’s clothing reflects his soul? And even shapes it, if he’s not careful?” Enjolras gave a slight smile. “Doesn’t this attire violate your hygienic precautions?”
“Pah! I’m dressed as a priest, not a lawyer. My assumed character involves equal malevolence but far less wit, and is therefore less dangerous to my soul.”
“What’s your assumed character for?”
“A bet. Courfeyrac bet me I couldn’t pass myself off as a priest sufficiently well to fool his great-aunt.” Bahorel grinned, and gestured at his couch. “I have an extra costume, would you like to come along?”
“I doubt my acting abilities would match yours,” Enjolras said, drily. “I fear I’d make a much less convincing priest.”
“Ah, yes, that’s true; you have too much pent-up fire behind your austere façade, and the aunt will surely see it, and know you’re headed for an explosion of interesting sins. No, I will go alone, and be the jovial priest who charms the old ladies, and that will persuade the good madame.”
Later, at the Musain, Bahorel showed up in his priest costume, looking highly amused, while Courfeyrac sat with his face in his hands. “You won the bet, I take it?” Enjolras said, to Bahorel.
“Oh, no–that I lost.” Enjolras looked from Courfeyrac to Bahorel, a question on his face, and Bahorel hastened to explain: “Courfeyrac’s aunt didn’t believe I was a priest for one second, which encouraged her to be rather forward in her manner.” Bahorel grinned. “Delightfully forward, in fact. We had much to discuss.”
“…ah,” Enjolras said. He noticed a slight bruise on Bahorel’s neck and a distinct flowery scent hovering around him, and decided it would be best to end his inquiries there.