"Such old, pure soul, wrapped in clean and merciless crimson", drunken Grantaire mumbled from his table, staring at red-vested Enjolras who was speaking with Combeferre. "Those azure eyes and the lips like cabochons... such a charming and terrible beauty."
Jehan looked up from his own notebook of poetry and shook his head. He was only one sitting near enough to hear the slurred words.
"This fresh and roseate Aurora, this loveliest angel, haloed... Oh, how could feeling this sweet be so bitter?"
It would have been too cruel to mock Grantaire and his unrequited love. Somewhere, Jehan thought, under that purple prose was actually a poet. Jehan buried his face back to his own writings.
