"I never said a word about too much. It's what you say. I--" He's talking over Bahorel, which is always tempting and rarely useful. So Bossuet waits, and leaves a good long silence after all the paper is on the floor.

"Feel any better? No? I just want you to--plan a moment how you talk to Grantaire. To Enjolras." He leans over for the bottle of vile mushroomy whatever-it-is. "And if we all have to spend the next decades--centuries--listening to Grantaire work this into an endless obscure speech about futility and shame and half-a-dozen names picked at random from the Greeks--now with chapter-and-verse citations to prove Enjolras's disdain--don't you dare run out of the room every time for a walk in the forest and leave someone else to listen to it all night and then get sicked up on. It's all very well to break a window-pane and then tear up a street just to see the effect but our friends--"

Oh, God. Is this the future? Forget centuries of Grantaire harangues; is he doomed to eternal bickering with Bahorel?

Laigle lies down carefully on the floor and stares at the ceiling. "I'm becoming a bore. I spent so many years scrupulously avoiding responsibility, and now here I am worrying about my friends' tender spirits."