"Yes. In any case, he wouldn't mind being woken for such news."
Enjolras had chosen black trousers when he rose, in the unthinking habit of months -- perhaps longer, in the indefinable way of time's passage at Milliways. It's hard to say, here where a week can pass in a night and the calendar seems to advance by steps and skips. But he pauses, now, and studies the contents of the drawer, and reaches instead for a pair of pale gray trousers.
He's never worn these. Nor the blue waistcoat and coat that follow after.
But Prouvaire is here now, the last of their number. Not the last of the Amis de l'ABC, nor the last man Enjolras called friend, but now the inner circle of their dearest friends is complete, all eight lieutenants and Grantaire; all dead on the rue de la Chanvrerie, and all here. It seems a worthy enough day to choose.
no subject
Enjolras had chosen black trousers when he rose, in the unthinking habit of months -- perhaps longer, in the indefinable way of time's passage at Milliways. It's hard to say, here where a week can pass in a night and the calendar seems to advance by steps and skips. But he pauses, now, and studies the contents of the drawer, and reaches instead for a pair of pale gray trousers.
He's never worn these. Nor the blue waistcoat and coat that follow after.
But Prouvaire is here now, the last of their number. Not the last of the Amis de l'ABC, nor the last man Enjolras called friend, but now the inner circle of their dearest friends is complete, all eight lieutenants and Grantaire; all dead on the rue de la Chanvrerie, and all here. It seems a worthy enough day to choose.