His dryness is primarily because, while in 1832 Enjolras had no strong opinions on Victor Hugo the semi-respectable Romantic author, it's different now; it's something else to be deposited by a magical Labyrinth in a Paris that isn't quite his, on a clear day after rain in early summer, on the morning of a funeral procession just at the corner where he and his friends fought and bled and died, months ago or more than 50 years before; with Grantaire alone, at the crowded funeral of Victor Hugo.

There's a sense of humor of sorts in that choice, and he's not sure how he feels about it.

At any rate. "There were vast crowds," he agrees. "It was rather a carnival."