⚜— "And tomorrow is the day that we shall all meet our end." The words are half-mumbled into the buzz of general chatter that clouds the room. They’re spoken mostly for Grantaire’s own benefit; he doesn’t care to see if anyone else has heard him. Sinking down lower in his seat, legs splayed, the drunkard lifts his bottle to his lips and lets his eyes settle on Enjolras. One more day until Enjolras’s fire is put out forever. One more day until they all become stinking corpses that will, no doubt, be thrown unceremoniously to rot in some unmarked mass grave. One more day until the gates of Hell swing open for Grantaire’s arrival. The others are all feverishly planning for the revolution, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to join in. All he wants to do is weep, drink, slumber, and then wake only long enough to die. There’s nothing on this earth left for him. There hasn’t been for years.
Death can’t come fast enough.