[He didn't question the memory, nor does he question Grantaire's presence here. In this world of stuffy heads and sore throats the man has been a constant.

He hears the question, mulling it over almost abstractly. His usual clarity of thought is muddled, working in circles where he intends to go in straight lines.

There had been a promise in that death. I'm one of them, is what the drunk had said, and Enjolras had thought he knew what it meant.]

I thought you would be different. I expected it. A miracle, I told myself. A man changed by revolution. Even you could not be so indifferent to not see what was being done here. [A pause. No, not here.] There.