"Ah! Minotaur," says Grantaire, into the emptiness that follows. He's mostly conquered his fit of hilarity; his voice is rueful now, sardonic, commiserative. "If you wanted a comfortable meal -- if you wanted a comfortable existence, if you wanted a comfortable despair -- ah, friend, you shouldn't have let him talk. Eat him now, and every time your stomach grumbles, it'll sound like someone shouting 'Liberte, Fraternite!'"