Enjolras glances at him, faintly bemused by the question; then, recognizing the needling, he grimaces in tolerant (and slightly rueful) answer.
"Not by anyone we knew in our year, nor who seemed to recognize either of us personally."
"But," he admits, "there was a group of men who asked our names, and when we answered seemed to regard them as jokes, or code names. So perhaps, in a way."
Yes, all right, Combeferre can be amused at that if he wants. (Enjolras isn't exactly, but he's not bothered by it, either. It's just strange. But being in Paris of 1885 was stranger, and far more disconcerting.)
no subject
"Not by anyone we knew in our year, nor who seemed to recognize either of us personally."
"But," he admits, "there was a group of men who asked our names, and when we answered seemed to regard them as jokes, or code names. So perhaps, in a way."
Yes, all right, Combeferre can be amused at that if he wants. (Enjolras isn't exactly, but he's not bothered by it, either. It's just strange. But being in Paris of 1885 was stranger, and far more disconcerting.)