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Updated: May 21, 2025
In the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were playing dominoes, and talking of love. "You are in luck, that you are," Joly was saying. "You have a mistress who is always laughing." "That is a fault of hers," returned Bahorel. "One's mistress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you."
"It must be real wine," observed Bossuet. "It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles." Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs, placed his veto on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might touch them, he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.
Grantaire was sitting opposite another figure, at a marble Saint-Anne table, strewn with grains of bran and dotted with dominos. He was hammering the table with his fist, and this is what Enjolras heard: "Double-six." "Fours." "The pig! I have no more." "You are dead. A two." "Six." "Three." "One." "It's my move." "Four points." "Not much." "It's your turn." "I have made an enormous mistake."
Enjolras, as the reader knows, had something of the Spartan and of the Puritan in his composition. He would have perished at Thermopylae with Leonidas, and burned at Drogheda with Cromwell. "Grantaire," he shouted, "go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don't disgrace the barricade!"
They are souls possessed of senses. They lie among the stars." Grantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly, his second harangue, when a new personage emerged from the square aperture of the stairs. It was a boy less than ten years of age, ragged, very small, yellow, with an odd phiz, a vivacious eye, an enormous amount of hair drenched with rain, and wearing a contented air.
Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and timid! You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sister, and lips which claim the kiss of a lover." "Hold your tongue, you cask!" said Courfeyrac. Grantaire retorted: "I am the capitoul and the master of the floral games!" Enjolras, who was standing on the crest of the barricade, gun in hand, raised his beautiful, austere face.
Tell him from me: "A B C". It's a joke that they're playing on you, isn't it. He gave me ten sous." "Joly, lend me ten sous," said Laigle; and, turning to Grantaire: "Grantaire, lend me ten sous." This made twenty sous, which Laigle handed to the lad. "Thank you, sir," said the urchin. "What is your name?" inquired Laigle. "Navet, Gavroche's friend." "Stay with us," said Laigle.
"Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?" "Yes." Grantaire had waked up a few moments before. Grantaire, it will be remembered, had been asleep ever since the preceding evening in the upper room of the wine-shop, seated on a chair and leaning on the table. He realized in its fullest sense the old metaphor of "dead drunk."
"At what price?" shouted Grantaire. The third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion. Pagan mythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. The question was about Olympus, whose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire, out of pure romanticism. Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose.
Relegated, as he was, to one corner, and sheltered behind the billiard-table, the soldiers whose eyes were fixed on Enjolras, had not even noticed Grantaire, and the sergeant was preparing to repeat his order: "Take aim!" when all at once, they heard a strong voice shout beside them: "Long live the Republic! I'm one of them." Grantaire had risen.
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