"Are you good for anything?"
"I have a vague ambition in that direction," said Grantaire.
"You do not believe in everything."
"I believe in you."
They profess to mourn Lamarque's death as a tragedy, but they see it as something more—something transcendental, something that will ignite the power of revolution in the people and the power of inspiration in their hearts. Enjolras in particular never expressed a doubt that they would do so—given, of course, the right opportunities, all at the right times. He always said they'd come eventually, that you couldn't make them, only prepare for them.
"And if they don't come until after you're dead?" someone had asked. It might have been Combeferre. It usually was.
"It doesn't matter. They will come," Enjolras had said—or maybe that was one of the other times. It was something that somebody always asked, be it a newcomer or someone who'd asked it repeatedly. Usually the somebody was Combeferre, asking with a little bit of hope as if he were sure the answer would change. It didn't.
And now he says it has come, and a sizable portion of the people seem to think it too. Grantaire watches from the window, blurred wet by the not-quite rain, and reminds himself he has sworn it all off.
I said it the day he found me in the Barrière du Maine. I want no more to do with him, nothing to do with their émeute and their Lamarque's funeral. It's not that their cause is groundless. I sometimes even look upon them with a great deal of affection and I wish them the best of luck. I just find it mildly surprising that they believe it—enough to act on it!—in a world that is rapidly eschewing such beliefs. I feel rather older and wiser, and I don't consider that a reason to respect myself.
I just don't care enough about things. I don't think this even gives me the right to call myself a cynic.
Enjolras had let the door swing shut to bounce back against his shoulders, not flinching as it hit and then swung back, coming finally to rest without the grating creak that so often graced the doors of Musain. Grantaire hadn't noticed until, looking up from his hopeless game of dominoes, a rueful laugh in his throat, he caught sight of the figure standing there in the doorway, pointedly not watching.
He shook his head and turned away, not wanting to see, waiting for the other to approach him with (deserved!) anger, willing someone else to talk first.
He looked up eventually. Didn't see a sign of Enjolras. Whispered a curse and pushed his chair back violently, then, looking about rather bemusedly, had gotten up and wandered out. By the time he got outside Enjolras wasn't there anymore, but he hadn't expected him to be.
"So I told them," he'd said to Combeferre later, nodding and raising his glass to emphasize the point. "I told them, see? And you know what they said?" He looked at the glass he held aloft, blinked, and set it back down, inaudible except for a faint ring. "They said I was a fool," he said quietly.
His companion studied him and finally ventured, "Did they."
Grantaire looked up shortly. "No. No, of course they didn't. You should know better than to believe me, Combeferre."
"And also to listen to you, it seems. Yet Enjolras didn't do anything?"
A slight shrug. "Damned if I know what he's done."
"But you care."
Grantaire pushed the glass toward the table's edge. "Enjolras will do what he wishes, and he won't know that I meant to give the world to him—didn't know, until I pleaded with him yesterday. I always mean to, you know."
"Don't we all," interjected Combeferre, smiling faintly. "You could still do it. Return to the Barrière. Talk to them of revolution, of the Republic. Come back and make your report to Enjolras. It would do you good, capital R."
"And them none. Everything I can ever say has already been said a million times—with, let me remind you, a small degree of success. Everything Enjolras says has been said about half a million—but you don't realize that when you listen."
Combeferre laughed briefly. "Sleep on it for a while, citizen, and see what you think come dawn."
"I don't think, Combeferre; I merely think of thinking."
"Nor do you talk, Grantaire—you only think of talking." A parting shot, given as Combeferre rose from the table, and taking effect only when the door closed behind him, sending a slight breeze through the room.
"I grow tired of myself, Combeferre," he said, to no one in particular.
There were days in the beginning, before I knew any of them, when I would sit slumped on my solitary table, pausing in my drunken stupor every few minutes to wave the oppressing heat away from my face and wondering if they would come today—and half wishing they wouldn't, because then I could retain my feeling of solitude. Like a rock standing tall and proud amidst a roaring sea. Right. All sarcasm aside, hell, I don't mind solitude most of the time. But really it was then when I began to wonder if I weren't a little bit afraid of people.
I should have determined if that were true before I went there—in that ridiculous red waistcoat with the ridiculous denizens of the Barrière du Maine.
They pass the house in hordes, and every so often a lamp shatters from a stone being thrown at it in passing. My dear officiating landlady has poked her head in and asked briefly, "Didn't you have some friends?" Meaning, of course, friends who were involved in That Activity. "Yes, I did," I said, and let it go at that.
And I tell myself: I shan't do it anymore. Why bother with Enjolras at all? I shan't attend Lamarque's funeral for the sake of a man and a cause, neither of whom will ever need me.
And I have to say it again, just for the sake of saying it, just as I've said it ever since that day.
At length he leaves his post by the window and, pulling on his coat, leaves the house to walk the streets aimlessly, skirting around the edges of the funeral procession and avoiding the vicinity of the Corinth altogether. Once he nearly runs into the head of the procession and thinks he catches a glimpse of Enjolras there, shouting something and nearly bounding. So Enjolras can show real enthusiasm at last. Well, good for him.
"Grantaire!" someone calls. "Are you going to the barricades?"
It is Courfeyrac, on the way out from his house. He waves a hand jubilantly at Grantaire. Grantaire shakes his head. "No," he replies, with a half smile at himself. He's said it. He has absolved himself of all commitment. He is vaguely proud of himself.
Courfeyrac smiles back. "See you after, then."
There ought to be something more, Grantaire thinks at Courfeyrac's disappearing back. There ought to be something—a Why? or at least a Why Not? It was as if they never expected anything better of him.
Of course, why should they have?
He wonders, then, where the rest of them are. Enjolras will be out, of course; Bahorel following him around, always eager to be at the head of things. Courfeyrac is going; Laigle de Meaux and Joly will go too. Jean Prouvaire—he of them all would go, he of the vague ideals that he alone can shape into concreteness—and Combeferre, despite his repeated questioning, he will be there as well. Marius, now, he is not sure about Marius. Grantaire wonders where Marius is, and wishes he were there. He could ask him: Why are you not there? Marius would probably have a reason.
He envies the people their reason for being there, as they cry Revolution! and French Republic! He stands on the corner and watches them go, rather a collective entity than multiple people, and for a minute he almost believes the collective entity is a French Republic. They don't pay him any attention, of course, and he almost wishes they would.
He finds himself at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, as he knew he would, and is not surprised to see Joly and Laigle sitting in their usual seat at the Corinth. Eating breakfast, as calm as they can be, just waiting for things to begin happening. I am nothing without Enjolras! he wants to shout. I am here, as I always vowed I would not be, to eat again with you and perhaps die with you on the barricades you've lived for. Instead he says nothing.
Enjolras sends the message calling Joly and Laigle to the funeral of General Lamarque. Grantaire proclaims that he, preferring a breakfast to a hearse, is staying. Joly and Laigle too opt to remain.
If he had come for me I would have followed him. So much the worse for Enjolras! I shan't go to his funeral.
Can't you tell? he is asking the other silently. Can't you tell I would have come with you now? I came back. I always do.
And he knows that, he tells himself vaguely as he wanders, saying without much conviction whatever thought comes to him, until the rest of them come in and Enjolras cuts through his voice, saying, Do not dishonor the barricade.
Grantaire stops. "Let me sleep here," he says slowly, seeing again the day in the Barrière, where he had been too disgusted and proud to plead. "Let me sleep here—until I die here."
"Go sleep elsewhere. Grantaire," says Enjolras, "you are incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death."
He himself has attested to the lack of belief. He can likewise confirm the lack of will. Combeferre has noted the lack of thought.
But we can all die, Enjolras—yourself included, mind.
He won't be at all surprised, he tells himself, to find himself in the street when he awakes, unless they forget about him.