Grantaire is sneaking down the street with a sack over his shoulder. In this sack is the Javert-whore. He is well aware of Enjolras's orders to dispose of the unconscious body by way of the Seine. In fact, he repeats these words to himself just in case: "Dump the whore, dump the whore, Enjy said to dump the whore..." However, as we all know, constant repetition of one phrase will not necessarily help make us aware of it. In fact, as Grantaire's mind wandered from his quest, he began to devise a tune for the chant, and eventually he had turned it into a drinking song.
"Now," Grantaire said aloud, "to find somewhere to test this song."
It was not long until he found a little pub on the corner of two streets with French names that began with the word "rue," which is French for street. But the reader is probably aware of this. Grantaire went into this pub and seated himself at a table. A waitress brought him a few bottles of wine, and within an hour he was as unconscious as was the whore in the sack at his feet, if not moreso.
Another fellow in this pub is known to the reader. A young gentleman, hardly older than a boy, lounging at a nearby table noticed the sack by Grantaire's chair. With an expert eye he began judging its weight and possible value. Casually getting to his feet, the young man took a step toward Grantaire and coughed softly.
The drunk did not respond.
The young man coughed slightly louder, and Grantaire responded with a particularly noisy snore. The gentleman started to walk away, but turned suddenly and cried, "Whoa!"
Grantaire still made no movement. Satisfied, our gentleman lifted the bag, grunting slightly under its weight, and threw it over his shoulder. In a matter of moments, he dissolved into the crowd on the street and was not seen again.
"Hey! Come on, monsieur, wake up!"
The words seemed to be coming through a warm, heavy fog. Grantaire chose not to respond.
The fog was suddenly lifted, and Grantaire sat up, gasping. His head and shirt were soaked. A waitress stood by him with an empty pitcher in her hands.
"What could have possibly been important enough for you to do that?" he raged.
She scowled at him. "I just thought you should know, monsieur, that a young gentleman with black hair and a flower in his buttonhole has walked off with your luggage."
Grantaire did not understand her. He looked around the pub, then at the frowning waitress, and decided to leave.
"How much do I owe you?" he asked.
She continued to glower. "You've already paid."
"Ah," said Grantaire. "Then I'll be going." He got to his feet, and reached under his chair for the sack with the unconscious whore.
It was gone.
"Where the heck is my bag?" Grantaire shrieked at the waitress.
She smashed the glass pitcher over his head and went away.