Grantaire was at his usual post when they first met: nursing a bottle of absinthe and gazing across the room at the fiery, golden-haired Enjolras. There was a dreadful gale outside. Some of Les Amis who'd come in later were still trying to get warm by the fire. Consequently, many of them uttered cries of dismay when the door blew open, and rain and wind alike penetrated Le Café Musain.
"Shut that blasted door!" Bahorel barked irritably.
The small, thin figure who'd been responsible for the door's opening obeyed—but not without first displaying a middle finger.
Grantaire eyed the new arrival with mild interest. It took him a minute or two to decipher whether he was looking at a boy or a girl, for she was a homely thing and too undernourished to have any curves. Her hair was tucked up under a cap when she came in, but now she shook it loose and water droplets sprayed everywhere. It was lifeless, unkempt hair that seemed to have no distinguishable colour.
The ugly girl stood by the door for a few moments, glancing about the room with interest. Appearing not to find what she was looking for, she sighed. She chewed her lip indecisively for a moment, then straightened her shoulders and walked over to the fire, pulling up a stool in between Bahorel and Feuilly. Grantaire lost interest in her and returned to his drink.
A moment later, however, there was a piercing shriek. Grantaire, looking around in alarm, saw the girl launch herself at Bahorel, striking and clawing at him like a vicious feline. Shouts of displeasure broke out from the other Amis. Combeferre seized the gamine by her thin, bony shoulders and wrenched her away from Bahorel.
"Calm yourself!" He gave her a disapproving shake, while she writhed and fought against his grip.
"What is going on?"
The ruckus was quelled instantly and even the gamine stopped struggling as Enjolras strode over to the group, exuding his usual aura of command.
Bahorel snarled. "That street wench set upon me—"
"He splashed his drink at me, on purpose!"
Grantaire looked on with renewed interest as Enjolras glared coldly at both offending parties.
"Arrêtez d'être des imbéciles," he said sharply. "The revolution is no place for ces bêtises." With that, Enjolras turned on his heels to go, but a moment later paused and looked back at the girl. He looked her up and down, taking in her tattered appearance. "You may stay, if you don't cause any more disturbances."
Grantaire watched in admiration as Enjolras strode off. What a splendid statue!
Eventually, he turned his attention back to the gamine and the recently stamped out fray. Combeferre had released her, and she stood there with glowering eyes and slumped shoulders, dripping wet not only with the rain but with the contents of Bahorel's beer glass. Les Amis had regrouped by the fire, and she stood outside of the circle, clearly unwelcome.
Grantaire called out to her.
"Mam'zelle."
Her gaze snapped over to him.
He grinned at her in his usual ambiguous way (was it a friendly, mocking, or simply drunken grin?) and nodded sideways towards the chair next to him. "You may sit here, if you like."
The girl eyed him suspiciously for several seconds, but finally shrugged. Walking over, she settled into the indicated chair.
"I'm Grantaire," he said, extending a hand with that same ambiguous grin.
She cocked an eyebrow at the proffered hand, but took it. "Éponine."
"Enchanté, Éponine. Would you like some absinthe?"
She shrugged again. "I prefer whiskey. But yes, thanks."
With that, she reached across to his bottle and helped herself to a sip—without wincing. The smile that sprang onto Grantaire's face at that was not ambiguous. It was certainly sheer delight.