Why, for Enjolras that expression is very nearly smugness. Bahorel approves entirely. He rolls over to shove playfully at Enjolras with his forehead, happy and fiercely proud; of Enjolras, of all his friends, with their absurdities and daring.

As if in response to that thought, a shadow passes by from much higher up than Prouvaire or Combeferre's wings. Bahorel grins at the stretched silhouette of Joly's robot-self, and takes off running after it. The mood demands he fights, or dances, or races, but moves , somehow; and there are few enough hours left to do all of it in this form.