It was dark when he finally left the cafe, stumbling slightly. His vision was somewhat hazy.
Musichetta hasn't let him pay for his drinks. He could remember the way she had clasped her hands, tightly. "It's the least I can do…" That was what she'd said.
Grantaire didn't know where to go, but he was resolute that he wouldn't go home. Not yet. He couldn't bear the look on his mother's face, the way she treated him as if he were made of glass, or the disapproving scowl of his father.
Although he had never been deeply religious, he felt compelled to go somewhere familiar, and so he found himself in the Notre Dame cathedral. Gazing at the altar, he wondered- where was Enjolras? Could he truly be dead? How was it possible? That word- killed. Dead. He repeated it in his mind, as if trying to understand.
Dead. Dead. Killed. Dead.
And yet, he couldn't imagine a world without Apollo. Without his smile, without his fire, without his voice and his laugh, and the way he carries himself. No- a world without Enjolras was like a world without the sun. Impossible.
He stumbled out into the street, mind reeling. Enjolras- killed. Dead.
The reality began to sink in.
Enjolras- dead. The two words had no place together. Grantaire felt something warm running down on his cheek and raised his hand to brush it away. A tear.
In front of him, he saw the glint of the streetlights on the surface of the Seine. He was near the Quai aux Fleurs- wasn't that where the policeman had been found, drowned? The one that had been at the barricade, the one that Enjolras had ordered somebody to shoot. The water was dangerous there. Even the most experienced swimmer couldn't possibly stand a chance against the pull of the current. It would be so easy just to lean forward, fall in, let the water close over his head.
Would it hurt? Maybe the absinthe would numb the pain. Maybe Grantaire wouldn't feel anything but the cold. Maybe-
He was almost in a daze as he leaned forward, gazing at the water. Enjolras- killed. He'd see him again. Soon.
What was it that Enjolras had told him, that last thing he'd said to him? "You are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, or living, and of dying." He remembered the look on Enjolras's face. Annoyance. Was that all he was to him? A wretch, good for nothing…
But he had taken Grantaire's hand. Smiled at him. The look in his eyes…
Grantaire stared at the light reflected on the water's surface. Enjolras had been wrong. To die- it would be easy for him.
And then he stumbled back from the edge, struck by a single thought- Enjolras wouldn't jump into the Seine. He'd find a way to go on, Grantaire was sure of that. He had always been braver. To die now… It would be cowardice.
And coming to that conclusion, he turned, tugging up the collar of his coat, and walked away, still unsteady from the alcohol.