Enjolras doesn't look at Courfeyrac as he reads. It's not that he objects to Courfeyrac reading whatever these flowery distasteful passages may be; it's only that he doesn't feel any great need to watch his friend's mobile face and wonder what words are spurring each expression.
But it is at least somewhat reassuring that Courfeyrac is finding it amusing, rather than sounding as if he'd like to call out Hugo, or throw the book in a fireplace. From the subtext in what Combeferre said and didn't say, Enjolras honestly wasn't sure.
(Relevant here is the fact that Courfeyrac has doubtless read more literature of the Romantics than either Combeferre or Enjolras. Not a difficult matter, with how little they both read of fiction. Thus, like Bahorel, he may be much more accustomed to taking florid descriptions in stride, or hearing them declaimed across somebody's room at a party.)
Instead, he grimaces again, with greater annoyance (and greater discomfort) this time.
"Well."
It's done and published. But that's not what he expected posterity might take from their death, or anything else.
Wryly, "Bahorel did tell me I wouldn't likely find the descriptions interesting."
He sighs, and rests a hand briefly over Combeferre's where it presses his shoulder. "Thank you. I wish he hadn't, and it's not fair to Grantaire, but it's done. Presumably Hugo felt he had some artistic reason." Enjolras doesn't understand artistic reasons, and knows it. "I'll speak with Grantaire about it if he likes, but I doubt he will."
He's not entirely oblivious to Grantaire's sentiments, though he also doesn't entirely comprehend many of them. But it's never been a matter he's wished to speak much of, nor acknowledge. What good would it do to either of them? Much of what's been left unspoken, Enjolras would prefer to continue not speaking of.
no subject
But it is at least somewhat reassuring that Courfeyrac is finding it amusing, rather than sounding as if he'd like to call out Hugo, or throw the book in a fireplace. From the subtext in what Combeferre said and didn't say, Enjolras honestly wasn't sure.
(Relevant here is the fact that Courfeyrac has doubtless read more literature of the Romantics than either Combeferre or Enjolras. Not a difficult matter, with how little they both read of fiction. Thus, like Bahorel, he may be much more accustomed to taking florid descriptions in stride, or hearing them declaimed across somebody's room at a party.)
Instead, he grimaces again, with greater annoyance (and greater discomfort) this time.
"Well."
It's done and published. But that's not what he expected posterity might take from their death, or anything else.
Wryly, "Bahorel did tell me I wouldn't likely find the descriptions interesting."
He sighs, and rests a hand briefly over Combeferre's where it presses his shoulder. "Thank you. I wish he hadn't, and it's not fair to Grantaire, but it's done. Presumably Hugo felt he had some artistic reason." Enjolras doesn't understand artistic reasons, and knows it. "I'll speak with Grantaire about it if he likes, but I doubt he will."
He's not entirely oblivious to Grantaire's sentiments, though he also doesn't entirely comprehend many of them. But it's never been a matter he's wished to speak much of, nor acknowledge. What good would it do to either of them? Much of what's been left unspoken, Enjolras would prefer to continue not speaking of.