Combeferre has spilled coffee on his shirt. It's only a drop, but he dabs at it ineffectually. Ah, well, it will be covered when he puts on a waistcoat.

"Prouvaire found a Paris in the Labyrinth," Combeferre says, in lieu of trying to say how deeply happy he is. (There's little point in that, after all. Enjolras surely knows.) "I don't know if he told you. Joly and I found one, too--a different one. I didn't see Prouvaire until we were out on the lawn."

Thinking of the moment, he smiles again, or perhaps he had never stopped.