Combeferre took it upon himself to catalogue their supplies and stockpiles. He found Grantaire in the basement, ably consuming the day's ration of wine and cognac. And making a terrible nuisance of himself, thought Combeferre, as he attempted to complete his census.
"Twenty-four bottles."
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-two and a half. Twenty-two."
"Par diable, Marion!" The agitated doctor smacked his ledger. "Will you not desist?"
"Oh soon, soon enough, mon cher. I shall be finished within the hour, after which neither bottles nor catalogues will matter, for we shall all be dead. I pour the funeral libation in anticipation!" So saying, he upended the remaining-half bottle onto the floor.
"I surrender!" Combeferre threw up his hands and turned to leave.
"Wise words!" Grantaire called after him, "Remember them for the all too nearby future!"
"Ah!" cried Combeferre, as he nearly collided with young Enjolras, who was heading down. "Perhaps you can reason with that great Cask down there, Adrien, for I swear to you that I am beaten." The grim laughter of the fool on the edge of the precipice followed him out into the tavern. Enjolras blinked and descended, his face furrowed with concern to see what diabolic state his Grandeur gloried in so wantonly.
"How now, petit? Come here, I am having a wake, and it is for you, as much as me. Avant!" Enjolras did come closer, and, after a moments intimacy with the mouth of the handiest bottle, the drunken demagogue leaned forward to practice a similar intimacy upon the mouth of Enjolras. Enjolras rebuffed him angrily. Grantaire admired the display of divine fury for a moment or two: the wild, golden aureole and excellent jaw working furiously while the demi-god searched for verbs and adjectives appropriate to his perfect wrath. Grantaire just smiled. "Ah, Adrien, say nothing. Words are my element, this has always been the trouble. Grandiose and pretty, they tumble as easily from my mouth as from the mad apostle on the isle of Patmos. I've described loftily Trumpets and Archangels, plagues, locusts, scarlet whores. Mais, mon cher, I am but a lamb with the voice of a lion, and as much of a leader as any of these other sheep."
"What do you mean to say?" Enjolras narrowed his eyes. Grantaire chuckled.
"What, thou, who hath interpreted my most far-flung ephemerality, backed staunchly by the weight of wind and nothing -- thou canst not catch my meaning now, petit? Then, in faith, I shall for once in my life be plain. I lied to you, Enjolras. Grandeur," he grinned horridly, "is a delusion. And for this delusion shall he die, because when a flurry of idle dreamers deigned to take him seriously, he was too intoxicated by the worship on one of them to desist. And so shall they all follow him into hell. How is that?" He laughed the unkind laugh of a stormcrow witnessing the advent of its own fell prophecy.
Enjolras stared, speechless once more, and Grantaire no longer felt like talking. He commiserated instead with the open bottle. After a moment, incensed, the firebrand snatched the bottle from the laconic drunkard's hand. The latter watched with an impressed chuckle as the former tried not to wince or choke on the liquor, and mostly succeeded.
"I do not understand you!" Enjolras shouted, finally. "Have I done something? Do you not want me anymore?"
"What?" Grantaire spluttered, sitting up so fast it made his head spin.
"You're trying to drive me away. Why?"
Gaping, Grantaire sought to answer that frowning fairness. "Enjolras, Adrien, what I'm most certainly not doing --"
"Grandeur, stop." The sudden raised hand had a most devastating effect upon Grantaire. He was powerless to do anything save obey. Enjolras continued. "You know, if you don't want me, well, I am no one important. I'm one soldier in the most desperate army, and I don't matter, next to -- don't interrupt." He sighed with frustration, eyes flashing as he rounded angrily upon Grantaire's feeble protests. "You can hate me all you wish, but for God's sake, don't take it out on the Republic!"
"Adrien, for once in my life, I am speaking the truth. Is that not the prerogative of a dying man? We've a foot in the grave, little Enjolras, little disciple, and the reason has as little enough to do with your Republic. It is because of my weakness in your grace."
"We have a foot in a grave, but it is a grave illuminated by the dawn. A vision cherished in each of our hearts, but which you in truth gave us eyes to see. Grantaire." He put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, "It is all right to be afraid of death. I hate it. But we who die here die in the radiance of the future, and death -- remember? You said it yourself: death is necessary for the..."
"... the advent of new life." Grantaire murmured miserably.
"You persist in this melancholy madness." Enjolras shook him. "You know that I believe in you."
"What? You cannot! You are dreaming, and it is nightmarish. You, you're not real. You're part of my nightmare. You are incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death."
"You'll see," replied Enjolras, in a voice soft and cold as the very grave of which they had spoken. Enjolras folded his arms and prepared to stand sentinel between Grantaire and the rest of the wine. The unwilling Orestes sighed.
"After the next act of this farce." He growled, rose, and stalked back up into the fog.