Bahorel bought another round of wine for the group; it was his turn, after all. At least Grantaire was late; that meant the bottle would last longer. The veteran-student was always drowning his sorrows.
Combeferre and Feuilly were playing dice, while Courfeyrac and Prouvaire loudly debated a point of philosophy. It looked to be just one more night in the dingy tavern on the rue de la Chanverrie.
Until Grantaire entered, his face solemn as a judge, followed by an equally subdued Enjolras.
Grantaire picked up the nearest glass — which happened to be Bahorel’s.
“A toast to fallen comrades, my friends,” he intoned. “General Lamarque has gone to his reward.”