The most giddy of them became solemn when they pronounced that date：
'89.
Their fathers in the flesh had been，either royalists，doctrinaires，it matters not what；this confusion anterior to themselves，who were young，did not concern them at all；the pure blood of principle ran in their veins.
They attached themselves，without intermediate shades，to incorruptible right and absolute duty.
Affiliated and initiated，they sketched out the ideal underground.
Among all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced minds，there was one sceptic.
How came he there？
By juxtaposition.This sceptic's name was Grantaire，and he was in the habit of signing himself with this rebus：
R.Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in anything.
Moreover，he was one of the students who had learned the most during their course at Paris；he knew that the best coffee was to be had at the Cafe Lemblin，and the best billiards at the Cafe Voltaire，that good cakes and lasses were to be found at the Ermitage，on the Boulevard du Maine，spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget's，excellent matelotes at the Barriere de la Cunette，and a certain thin white wine at the Barriere du Com pat.
He knew the best place for everything；in addition，boxing and foot-fencing and some dances；and he was a thorough single-stick player.
He was a tremendous drinker to boot.He was inordinately homely：
the prettiest boot-stitcher of that day，Irma Boissy，enraged with his homeliness，pronounced sentence on him as follows：
'Grantaire is impossible'；but Grantaire's fatuity was not to be disconcerted.
He stared tenderly and fixedly at all women，with the air of saying to them all：
'If I only chose！'and of trying to make his comrades believe that he was in general demand.
All those words：
rights of the people，rights of man，the social contract，the French Revolution，the Republic，democracy，humanity，civilization，religion，progress，came very near to signifying nothing whatever to Grantaire.
He smiled at them.Scepticism，that caries of the intelligence，had not left him a single whole idea.
He lived with irony.
This was his axiom：'There is but one certainty，my full glass.'
He sneered at all devotion in all parties，the father as well as the brother，Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles.
'They are greatly in advance to be dead，'he exclaimed.
He said of the crucifix：
'There is a gibbet which has been a success.'
A rover，a gambler，a libertine，often drunk，he displeased these young dreamers by humming incessantly：'J'aimons les filles，et j'aimons le bon vin.'
Air：
Vive Henri IV.
However，this sceptic had one fanaticism.
This fanaticism was neither a dogma，nor an idea，nor an art，nor a science；it was a man：
Enjolras.
Grantaire admired，loved，and venerated Enjolras.To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds？
To the most absolute.
In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him？
By his ideas？
No.By his character.A phenomenon which is often observable.
A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors.
That which we lack attracts us.
No one loves the light like the blind man.The dwarf adores the drum-major.The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven.
Why？
In order to watch the bird in its flight.Grantaire，in whom writhed doubt，loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras.He had need of Enjolras.
That chaste，healthy，firm，upright，hard，candid nature charmed him，without his being clearly aware of it，and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him.
He admired his opposite by instinct.
His soft，yielding，dislocated，sickly，shapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolras as to a spinal column.
His moral backbone leaned on that firmness.Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once more.He was，himself，moreover，composed of two elements，which were，to all appearance，incompatible.
He was ironical and cordial.His indifference loved.
His mind could get along without belief，but his heart could not get along without friendship.A profound contradiction；for an affection is a conviction.His nature was thus constituted.
There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse，the obverse，the wrong side.
They are Pollux，Patrocles，Nisus，Eudamidas，Ephestion，Pechmeja.
They only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man；their name is a sequel，and is only written preceded by the conjunction and；and their existence is not their own；it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs.
Grantaire was one of these men.He was the obverse of Enjolras.
One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of the alphabet.
In the series O and P are inseparable.
You can，at will，pronounce O and P or Orestes and Pylades.
Grantaire，Enjolras'true satellite，inhabited this circle of young men；he lived there，he took no pleasure anywhere but there；he followed them everywhere.
His joy was to see these forms go and come through the fumes of wine.
They tolerated him on account of his good humor.
Enjolras，the believer，disdained this sceptic；and，a sober man himself，scorned this drunkard.
He accorded him a little lofty pity.
Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades.
Always harshly treated by Enjolras，roughly repulsed，rejected yet ever returning to the charge，he said of Enjolras：
'What fine marble！'
A GROUP WHICH BARELY MISSED BECOMING HISTORIC
At that epoch，which was，to all appearances indifferent，a certain revolutionary quiver was vaguely current.
Breaths which had started forth from the depths of'89 and'93 were in the air.
Youth was on the point，may the reader pardon us the word，of moulting.People were undergoing a transformation，almost without being conscious of it，through the movement of the age.
The needle which moves round the compass also moves in souls.
