"Someone had best go see what he's up to," Joly prompted, following several moments of silence.

There was a sudden, brief flurry of activity as both Laigle and Feuilly dove to make themselves look busy.

"Oh, come on!" Joly snapped at Bossuet, who was cradling an empty mixing bowl and avidly banging around inside of it with a wooden spoon. "You're all completely overreacting."

"So, why don't you go?" Feuilly demanded as he industriously shoveled cups of flour into a second saucepan.

"Well, I'd like to," Joly began earnestly. "But I'm feeling a bit lightheaded and I think it would be best if I avoided doing anything strenuous for a while. You know, just in case."

"What's so strenuous about walking into the other room?" Bahorel inquired with a wicked grin.

The medical student scowled in reply, apparently unable to come up with a better argument. "Fine, I'll go," he huffed. "But if I die of heat stroke or—or orthostatic hypertension, know that I will blame you."

"Duly noted," Laigle said cheerfully, offering his friend a jaunty wave, spoon still in hand.

Without another word, Joly took his leave, shuffling through the room where the group normally met, and beginning the long trek down the passage that led to the café's front room.

The sight that greeted him as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the deserted common area was hardly the scene of pandemonium that he had anticipated. The chairs were stacked upside down at each of the tables—as they always were when the café was closed, and the bar appeared to be undisturbed, a small army of bottles lined up on the shelves with military precision. And yet…

Carefully, Joly approached the bar, edging around the counter as if he expected a bear to pop out from behind it. A rasping snore made him jump slightly and he clutched at his heart, feeling decidedly silly as he caught sight of the man slumped against the wall. A huge pewter tray lay mournfully at his feet, a large dent proclaiming the abuse to which it had been subjected. "Grantaire," Joly hissed, moving closer to prod at the sleeper with his foot. "Grantaire, get up."

After several more attempts, the drunkard's eyelids fluttered and he raised his head, allowing it to loll back on his neck. "You know," he slurred in his rough voice as he peered at his comrade with bloodshot eyes. "They say drinking makes everybody appear more attractive, but you're just as pale and scrawny as ever."

The corner of Joly's mouth twitched and he rolled his eyes heavenward. "Get up," he demanded wearily, taking hold of the other man's elbow and attempting to haul him to his feet.

Grantaire complied, using the counter to steady himself. Pulling his arm from Joly's grasp, he drowsily scrubbed a hand over his face, a noise like sandpaper issuing from the thick stubble coating his jaw. "Where is everybody?"

"They're in the kitchen." Joly grimaced at the rasping noise, his teeth set on edge. "Do you have to do that?"

"Forgive me; at times I forget what a delicate flower you are." With a toothy grin, Grantaire brushed past his friend and teetered towards the door Joly had come through.

Seized with sudden panic at the thought of Grantaire lurching about the kitchen, Joly hurried to catch him. "Wait! Maybe it's best if you stay here."

The other swung to face him, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Why's that?"

"Because you're drunk," Joly replied bluntly. "Though I can't imagine how, at this hour."

"So I am," Grantaire mused, scratching his bristly chin. "And why not? What's the use of being sober in such a detestable setting? Eh?" With a hearty guffaw, he slapped his companion on the shoulder, making the latter wince.

"So, uh, why don't you stay out of the kitchen for now?" Joly coaxed, attempting to steer the inebriate away from the doorway and towards a nearby table.

For a moment, it seemed as if Grantaire would relent and allow himself to be deterred. Suddenly, however, his eyes lit up, as though the haze of wine had suddenly lifted from his mind, allowing him a glimpse into the workings of the universe. With a sly smile, he turned on his friend, holding up a hand to silence the other man's muddled protests. "Ah, ah! Speak not another word! I understand completely. You," he leaned in, gravely intoning with the air of a co-conspirator. "Don't think I can cook."

"What?" Joly felt his head reel, though whether it was from the unexpected accusation or the alcoholic reek of Grantaire's breath, he couldn't quite be sure. Pulling away, he stuttered. "Wait, No! That's not it at all!"

"No, don't try to deny it!" The drunk waved aside the smaller man's words as if they were dust motes. "I can see it plastered all over that pasty face of yours! Well, let me tell you, monsieur: Hestia, herself, could not have produced a finer ambrosia than I! I could whip up a soufflé that would make La Varenne gape with wonder; a veritable orgy of the senses, if you will!"

"No, really, you've got it all wrong!" But Joly's feeble attempts to halt the tide of words were drowned out by Grantaire's steadily rising voice as he hurled himself into one of his familiar rants. At a loss, the medical student fled the room, quite unnoticed by his friend, whose slurred proclamations followed him down the hallway, echoing uncannily.

"Let Jean Avice tremble in fear lest I stride into his kitchen and laugh at his talentless concoctions!"

At last, Joly stumbled to the doorway of the kitchen, thoroughly out of breath and more than ready to return to the company of his more understanding acquaintances. Raising his eyes to survey his friends' progress, he felt a gasp tear from his chest, sudden panic threatening to envelop him. In a moment, he had taken in the broken eggshells neatly piled on the countertop, Courfeyrac, leaning proudly against the door to the stairwell, and finally, the laden spoon poised at Feuilly's lips.

"Stop!" He cried with all the strength of his oft-treacherous lungs, hurling himself forward to knock the spoon from the fan-maker's trembling hand. "Nobody move!"