"Here, take these!"

Cosette dumped a pile of books into the dozing Grantaire's lap. He started and awoke.

"What is this?" he demanded, carelessly brushing the books off his legs.

Frowning, Cosette gathered them up in her arms and dropped them back on Grantaire's lap.

"They're for you."

"Pardon?"

"They're books. You know books, don't you?"

"Yes, I know books!" Grantaire shot back. "Why are they for me?"

"Father thought you might want to look at them."

Grantaire picked up a thin hardcover and looked at it disdainfully. "Candide, by Voltaire?"

Cosette nodded enthusiastically.

"The Canterbury Tales, Oedipus Tyrannus, The Decameron, Hamlet…the Bible! Cosette!"

But the young girl held her own. "Father asked me to bring them to you!"

"I can't read these."

"You can't read? I will teach you!"

"No, I won't read these."

Cosette pondered a moment. "Well, then," she decided. "I will just have to read them to you!"

Grantaire gruffly sighed. "Cosette. I've had to endure enough talk of books from Enjolras and Combeferre to last me the rest of my life. I absolutely will not give in to this."

"Who's Enjolras?" Cosette asked. "I've heard his name before. Tell me, he is a friend of yours?"

Grantaire's face went blank. "Enjolras…a friend of mine? I wish I were so lucky…" He tried to shake the man's beautiful face from his mind, but he could not. Nonetheless, it renewed Grantaire's conviction. Perhaps, with Cosette's help, he could indeed be on Enjolras called 'friend,' or at least 'citizen.' Grantaire sighed again. As disagreeable as he found being sober, it was at least better than enforced exile.

"Grantaire!?" Cosette's shrill voice broke through his reverie. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Cosette," he said slowly. "I would rather like having you read you to me. Why don't you chose a book?"

Cosette brightened considerably. Grabbing a fat book, she said, "Let's start now!"

Grantaire had a glance of the title-The Holy Bible-but he said nothing. Enjolras' face in his mind would not let him.

"Grantaire!"

Grantaire turned around guiltily. He had a reason to be guilty; he was sitting in the middle of the pantry searching desperately for a bottle of alcohol. However, he had only found cooking cherry. Realising that it was perhaps the best the he could do, he had begun to drain the bottle. But Jean Valjean had caught him.

"Grantaire?" he repeated, less sharply. "What is this?" as if he didn't already know.

Grantaire stowed away the cooking sherry and tried to slink away, but Jean Valjean's powerful form had barricaded him inside. The older man's disappointed countenance broke Grantaire's silence.

"One cannot simply stop!"

"One must simply stop," Jean Valjean calmly replied. "Because it cannot continue. You must realise that your lust for alcohol had been the source of all of the misfortunes that you have suffered."

Grantaire mumbled something.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, I wouldn't call it a lust….monsieur."

Jean Valjean serenely gazed at him. Grantaire had to turn away. Looking at this older man's saintly expression for too long was slightly akin to directly facing the sun; the gentle intensity of Jean Valjean's soul was simply too much for Grantaire to handle sometimes.

Jean Valjean's eyes softened. "I'll have Toussant brew a cup of coffee for you." Then he turned around and silently left.