Grantaire's apartment is dark, and largely decorated with various items of his wardrobe scattered around various places they ought not to be -- some old and in good taste, some new and hideous; a few new and tasteful both.

"Costumes-mistress," he murmurs distractedly to himself, as he picks up first one item, then another, "you must ensure that the clothes fit the understudy -- well, but the melodrama is simple, Pixerecourt himself might have written it; Le Chien d'Enjolras, ou Le Cafe de Paris, mélodrame historique en trois actes et à grand spectacle - ah, so!"

Finding what he's looking for, he shrugs it on and hastens out again.