They had not met before, but the youth was immediately recognizable as Courfeyrac's Apollo. He had, it seemed, become overinterested in his studies and his meddling friend had prevailed upon Grantaire to rescue him for a time.
Seeing him now, Grantaire was skeptical. The boy was slim, of the physique so admired by Athenian artists, and looked younger than he must be. They would be terribly mis-matched. He wondered what Courfeyrac had said of him to the boy: 'large, but coarse - granite rather than marble, and on his face the chisel slipped.' Something of the sort, for Apollo had seen him and was approaching.
'What do you study?' he inquired as they threaded their way through the gymnasium.
'Law,' the youth replied, 'and also politics.'
'Ah! You have come too late, then - the politics have ended.'
'What happened in July could happen in December,' came the response, with a conviction that suggested that if a revolt did not come soon, he would make one himself. His tone was such that the Grantaire almost believed he could.
Nevertheless, he laughed. 'Some crowns are light as feathers and blow away on the slightest breeze. Some are fastened on by nails. This new king, I think, has forged his crown with lead.'
'Then we will crush him with its weight.' The boy's eyes blazed. He would be a republican, of course. They always were, and the only thing worse than an idealistic republican was a smug monarchist.
His elder grinned, like a gargoyle. 'Save your strength for the last round. Battling tyranny is fine, but today you face Grantaire.' The speaker was, in this sport, possibly a more formidable opponent than Louis-Philippe.
He had already taken the measure of his prospective opponent: a new student fresh from the southern provinces, just as he had been a year before. Next fall he might be tolerable company, but this winter, Grantaire would be content beating him at canne de combat - the cudgel. The youth had not the temperament for a sport that owed more to aristocratic duels than to street fighting, but Courfeyrac had said he played and Grantaire was at odds for a partner. He was possessed of a name, but as it did not suit him Grantaire had already forgotten it.
The golden youth proved a worthier opponent than Grantaire had expected. Beaten, yes, but unwilling to admit it until the fourth round - at least one after anyone with his skill and more sense would have stopped. They played without the padded suits and helmets that would provide some measure of protection in a glorified stick-fight. Thus, the round ended with a blow to the chest and the youth on his knees gasping, victor kneeling beside him.
'You are well?' A nod.
'You really ought to have blocked that last. Come along, we're drawing a crowd.' And with that, he helped the boy to his feet and off the court.
Grantaire assured those curious or concerned enough to approach that all was well and waited until they were out of earshot before asking, 'You are well, aren't you?' Apollo's breathing was regular now, but he leaned slightly against Grantaire's supporting arm.
'Of course,' came the reply, with a reproachful look and a touch of irritance. Grantaire added mentally to his estimation of Apollo's skills: besides being a demogogue in the making and a thoroughly wretched cudgel-player, he was no doubt a master of righteous indignation.
He subsided with an oblique apology: 'If it's politics you're after, you'd best save your breath for shouting and not trust your ribs to my blows.' Another of those sharp nods. Not a godling, Grantaire corrected himself. A statue, cold to the touch.
He was about to take his leave when he caught Apollo's curious blue gaze and realized that his hand was still on the boy's shoulder. With a twisted grin he let it fall, brushing the youth's arm. 'Or perhaps', he offered, 'you would care for a less competitive sport?'