He is not asleep.
He woke to clamor, as he has so often before, but instead of the friendly uproar of a busy cafe, it was curses, crashes, cries of pain. There was a desperate quality to the lulls between blows. He kept his head down instinctively, even before he remembered where he was.
Now it is nearly silent. There is a low sound of commotion from downstairs. In the room with him, only harsh breathing.
"God," he hears Enjolras say, only that, in a voice that breaks his heart. "God."
Almost he raises his head. But in that moment there is a renewed clatter, and he becomes aware that there are other people now in the room. "By God," someone says, "that's him--"
"--the one who killed the--"
"Shoot him!"
"Shoot me, then." Enjolras is coldly defiant. It is possible that none of them hear the despair behind that coldness; but he hears, and aches.
He could get up now. He could not hope to distract them for more than a minute, could not save anything; but he could offer his poor devotion, and share this death, if nothing else.
But that thought floods him with equal parts fear and shame. He has not deserved such dignity. In his mind he sees Enjolras' face, angry and disgusted at his presumption; he imagines the soldiers' derision. Oh God, no!
And yet, to see him once more--
"Take aim."
Grantaire keeps his head down.
He woke to clamor, as he has so often before, but instead of the friendly uproar of a busy cafe, it was curses, crashes, cries of pain. There was a desperate quality to the lulls between blows. He kept his head down instinctively, even before he remembered where he was.
Now it is nearly silent. There is a low sound of commotion from downstairs. In the room with him, only harsh breathing.
"God," he hears Enjolras say, only that, in a voice that breaks his heart. "God."
Almost he raises his head. But in that moment there is a renewed clatter, and he becomes aware that there are other people now in the room. "By God," someone says, "that's him--"
"--the one who killed the--"
"Shoot him!"
"Shoot me, then." Enjolras is coldly defiant. It is possible that none of them hear the despair behind that coldness; but he hears, and aches.
He could get up now. He could not hope to distract them for more than a minute, could not save anything; but he could offer his poor devotion, and share this death, if nothing else.
But that thought floods him with equal parts fear and shame. He has not deserved such dignity. In his mind he sees Enjolras' face, angry and disgusted at his presumption; he imagines the soldiers' derision. Oh God, no!
And yet, to see him once more--
"Take aim."
Grantaire keeps his head down.