The last day of the term before a holiday break was cause for much jubilation among the students. As snow littered the streets of Paris, they gathered for a night of celebration. The Café Voltaire was Grantaire's idea. According to him, it was the best place to go to celebrate the end of term, a place promising good wine and pretty mademoiselles. The same idea must have struck others, because that night in December, the Café Voltaire was crowded with all types of students.

Getting Enjolras to comply was a bit difficult. He always viewed such merriments as a waste of time, and wanted to go to their regular hangouts, where he could debate freely with his friends. Not surprisingly, this sentiment was not shared by the other members of the ABC. Combeferre eventually talked him into joining them, however, and so, on that snowy December night, the group of friends made their way to the Café Voltaire.

It was crowded, but the air was filled with a sense of jubilation and freedom, with the noise of different conversations, and with the smell of smoke. Even Bossuet managed to scrape a few sous together for a drink. At one table, a small group was forming around Jehan, who was slowly getting more and more drunk. In between swigs of wine, he would cry out another verse of a poem he was composing off the top of his head. "Oh, sacred wine, immortal drink of Bacchus, I cry out to you for my inspiration. Ignite within me the flames of…" His poetry wasn't perfect, especially when composed in his inebriated mind, but it was good enough to draw a small crowd of spectators.

Combeferre, meanwhile, was enjoying the entertainment that came from watching a drunken Grantaire, who was loudly joking with Bahorel. Next to him sat Courfeyrac, and the two chatted amiably over whether Graintaire's drinking problem would get him into trouble someday when Combeferre soon found a heavily bandaged arm thrust underneath his nose.

"Would you mind looking at this? I need a second opinion." The voice was Joly's, and he glanced about nervously, as though worried his arm might fall off that very second.

"Joly!" Courfeyrac chimed in. "I was there when it happened. It was a piece of paper. A tiny piece of paper, and a scratch. You aren't dying, my friend."

"A paper scratch today, gangrene tomorrow!" cried out Joly.

Combeferre sighed deeply and took Joly's arm, carefully unwrapping the expertly bandaged wound. For an entire arm dressed in linen, the wound was only a small paper cut on the side of his lower thumb. It was red, like all paper scratches, and probably stung, but there was really nothing to do. Comebeferre opened his mouth to try and say this, but was cut off by Bossuet's voice. "Oh dear… look at Grantaire."

Grantaire, who had showed up to the Café Voltaire already drunk, had lost any trace of sobriety. He was now rambling, as he did when he was drunk, to a young grisette. But that wasn't the problem. The girl, a pretty, curvaceous redhead, had been staring at Enjolras all evening. Enjolras had agreed to come to the Café, but had showed up with an anti-Rousseau essay in his hand. Refusing any alcohol, he had settled himself down amiably in a chair and read while the others celebrated. For a reason the other students did not quite understand, Enjolras loved reading opinions he vehemently disagreed with. They upset and angered him, but he couldn't really stop. Courfeyrac called it his one addiction.

So, as the handsome man read all night, his blue eyes scanning page after page, he was completely unaware of the woman staring at him, realizing she was staring, looking away, and then staring again, an endless cycle of wishful thinking. Grantaire, however, had noticed. Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly watched as though spellbound while Grantaire egged the grisette on, urging her to talk to the handsome young man in the corner. She looked nervous at first, but whatever Grantaire said must have been convincing. After a few moments, she strode over to where Enjolras was sitting, contemplating the more controversial aspects of the Social Contract.

With all the coquettishness that a young woman could muster, she leant over the table and spoke to him. Combeferre's table was silent, awaiting the inevitable. At first, Enjolras looked up at her with a confused expression, as though he could not understand what she wanted. A bemused expression dominated his face, and his fingers twisted the edges of the Rousseau pamphlet. The mademoiselle, however, seemed not to notice, and flirtatiously tossed her long red hair about. The students watched as Enjolras's expression crossed from confusion to understanding to annoyance. He opened his mouth to speak, but over the noise of the Café his words could not be heard by Combeferre and the others. What he said, however, was not to the grisette's liking. She turned quickly from him and hurried away. Halfway across the café she met Grantaire. Holding back tears of embarrassment, realizing she was a victim of a cruel joke on Grantaire's part, she slapped him with all her strength. Before he could respond, she was on her way towards the door outside.

"Oh… dear." said Combeferre. Courfeyrac, who could never resist a damsel in distress, quickly rose to his feet and went to comfort her before she could leave the café. He steered her towards another table, his arm around her waist, talking in comforting tones. Before long, she was sitting on his lap, tossing her hair flirtatiously, and now and then casting angry looks at Enjolras, perhaps hoping to show him how desired she was.

Enjolras, for his part, took no notice. The girl had broken his train of thought, and he was left only with a faint sense of annoyance. His irritation was mostly towards Grantaire. He contributed nothing to the Society. He was a drunk and a bad influence. For the life of him, Enjolras could not understand why the others put up with him. They were always too polite around him; it was if they did not notice was terrible company he made. Enjolras had always tried to make it clear how he felt about having Grantaire around, but the others took no notice.

He sighed. Why was he so cold towards that young Mademoiselle in the first place? She really was sweet, but… He thought of all the time, all the effort that Courfeyrac and Joly and Combeferre put into their mistresses. How they degraded themselves by chasing after these women, showering them with gifts and love letters. How Enjolras just could not, for the life of him, understand why anyone would want that when there was more important stuff to do.

But others never took his view of things. His mother, especially, was quite a pain in these matters. Enjolras knew exactly what he had to face when he returned home to visit his parents for Christmas, and wasn't looking forward to it at all. (Not to mention the fact that he always tried to be polite when discussing politics with his father, but dinner with Monsieur Enjolras always turned into a shouting match.)

Enjolras folded his pamphlet up and put it in the pocket of his waistcoat. He glanced at Courfeyrac and the redhead and shook his head. It just isn't worth all that time and effort, he told himself. I have more important things to do.

Yet the pair looked so happy, and the steadfast student, for once in his life, doubted his view of things.