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People strive, turn each other out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, and get used to it!" And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of coughing, which was well earned. "A propos of revolution," said Joly, "it is decidedly abberent that Barius is in lub." "Does any one know with whom?" demanded Laigle. "Do." "No?" "Do! I tell you." "Marius' love affairs!" exclaimed Grantaire.
Once, having confidence in a fine September sun, Marius had allowed himself to be taken to the ball at Sceaux by Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Grantaire, hoping, what a dream! that he might, perhaps, find her there. Of course he did not see the one he sought. "But this is the place, all the same, where all lost women are found," grumbled Grantaire in an aside.
They are three grooms; the celestial butterfly is drowned in them; and there are formed there in a membranous smoke, vaguely condensed into the wing of the bat, three mute furies, Nightmare, Night, and Death, which hover about the slumbering Psyche. Grantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far from it. He was tremendously gay, and Bossuet and Joly retorted. They clinked glasses.
This angry speech produced a singular effect on Grantaire. One would have said that he had had a glass of cold water flung in his face. He seemed to be rendered suddenly sober. He sat down, put his elbows on a table near the window, looked at Enjolras with indescribable gentleness, and said to him: "Let me sleep here." "Go and sleep somewhere else," cried Enjolras.
Old coats are just like old friends." "Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up," said Grantaire. "Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from the boulevard?" "No." "We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I." "It's a marvellous sight," said Joly. "How quiet this street is!" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect that Paris was turned upside down?
They were all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, shaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins, Carmelites, Little Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines there was no end of them." "Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes one want to scratch one's self." Then he exclaimed: "Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster.
"The end of the world has come," she muttered. Joly deposited a kiss on Mame Hucheloup's fat, red, wrinkled neck, and said to Grantaire: "My dear fellow, I have always regarded a woman's neck as an infinitely delicate thing." But Grantaire attained to the highest regions of dithryamb.
"Is it mid-day or midnight?" cried Bossuet. "You can't see your hand before your face. Gibelotte, fetch a light." Grantaire was drinking in a melancholy way. "Enjolras disdains me," he muttered. "Enjolras said: 'Joly is ill, Grantaire is drunk. It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had come for me, I would have followed him. So much the worse for Enjolras! I won't go to his funeral."
Let every one be a member of the French Academy and have the right to embrace Madame Hucheloup. Let us drink." And turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added: "Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I may contemplate thee!" And Joly exclaimed: "Matelote and Gibelotte, dod't gib Grantaire anything more to drink.
Thus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into speech, catching at the dish-washer in her passage, from his corner in the back room of the Cafe Musain. Bossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose silence on him, and Grantaire began again worse than ever: "Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws.
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