Returning home isn't even an option to Enjolras's mind. It's the dearest personal wish of his heart, in a way, and yet -- they're dead. How could they return, except as shades, powerlessly haunting and observing? And would that be better or worse than their current situation? It's pointless speculation, and so he doesn't speculate on it. If a real opportunity ever arose, he'd consider the details of it then.

But he listens, and at the end he presses Prouvaire's arm with his free hand again, this time not from sympathy but from the fervent impulse of idealism shared, like a spark jumping from cloth to iron.

"Jean Prouvaire, my friend. You're very wise."