The thirst for happiness is never extinguished in the heart of man. –Rousseau.
"Happiness," Jehan was declaring, "is like progress. Its perfect state is one of constant desire and improvement. To be statically happy is to be unhappy."
Grantaire, across from him, poured him another drink and clutched a hand around the coins in his pocket. He'd won a small pile of silver playing dominoes at the Barrière du Maine yesterday and, as he had no idea what to do with himself, was passing the afternoon with Jehan in the Corinthe, spending the money on alcohol. At least there was someone to share it with, even if Jehan had been theorizing as he slowly became tipsy. But Grantaire was lost in his own thoughts, in two endless questions.
Why the hell had he been such an idiot yesterday, and what had he been thinking to even try?
"Thus, as Rousseau says: the thirst for happiness is never extinguished in the heart of man." Jehan drained half of his refilled glass in one gulp. "Even the happiest heart still thirsts for greater depth of joy, and anyone who does not desire more happiness in some form or another must have left his heart by the wayside!"
Grantaire looked up from the edge of the table, which he'd been examining intensely. "Huh?" he said. "What's that quote?"
Jehan looked at him quizzically, stifling a small hiccup. "I first said it ages ago," he answered. "Weren't you listening? 'The thirst for happiness is never extinguished in the heart of man.'"
"Oh," said Grantaire. He ran a hand though his hair, only vaguely realizing its greasiness and need of washing. "And that's why we do stupid things."
"Foolish things, brave ones." Jehan hiccupped again, but his gaze was clear and keen as he examined Grantaire's face. "Why we dare, why we don't dare too much."
Why I volunteer myself to Enjolras, why I don't follow through, Grantaire translated. Because I thirst for happiness, and failure would mean a loss of the happiness I already have.
For a moment, still letting the coins in his pocket fall through his fingers, he thought of handing them over to Jehan to be put into the society's fund for ammunition and pamphlet-printing and other such expenses, as a sort of penance, a sort of apology. But as quickly as the thought came into his head, he let it pass.
Nothing would make up for the chance at happiness that he had lost, for the sake of preserving the happiness he already had.
He did not thirst enough, he thought. Not as much as Jehan, not as much as Enjolras, not as much as any of these dreamers. He did not seek progress in joy; he merely dwelt in the same plane he had since he had first met Enjolras and the others, watching and absorbing.
Grantaire called for the waitress to bring them another bottle, wondering vaguely if his lack of ambition towards greater happiness truly did mean his heart a lost cause.