The Back Room of the Café Musain — Les Misérables

One of the conversations among the young men, at which Marius was present and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his mind. This took place in the back room of the Café Musain. Nearly all the Friends of the ABC had convened that evening. The argand lamp was solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion and with noise. With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held their peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. It was a game and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words to each other and caught them up in turn. No woman was admitted to this back room except Louison, the dish-washer of the café, who passed through it from time to time on her way to the washing.

Grantaire, thoroughly drunk, had taken possession of a corner and was shouting that he was thirsty, that he desired to forget life, that vanity patches everything with big words, and that he disdained the human race. Bossuet tried to impose silence; Grantaire began again worse than ever, and then hummed while Bossuet sank waist-high into a phrase of judicial slang. Near them a vaudeville was being sketched in a low voice: when one has the names, one finds the subject. Another group, taking advantage of the uproar, discussed a duel. In the angle opposite, Joly and Bahorel played dominoes and talked of love. In another corner Jean Prouvaire, timid only in repose, burst forth and would not insult the gods. In the last corner they were talking politics. The Charter which had been granted was getting roughly handled. Combeferre was upholding it weakly. Courfeyrac was energetically making a breach in it.

Courfeyrac seized the unfortunate copy of the Touquet Charter and brandished it, mingling arguments with the rattling of the sheet. He would have no kings; a king is a parasite. One does not have kings gratis. A charter granted is but a poor expedient of civilization. A people which accepts a charter abdicates. The law is only the law when entire. No charter. It was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fireplace. Courfeyrac crumpled the poor Charter in his fist and flung it in the fire. The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis the Eighteenth burn philosophically, and contented himself with saying: The charter metamorphosed into flame. And sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is called entrain, and that English thing which is called humour, all the wild pyrotechnics of dialogue, mounting together and crossing from all points of the room, produced a sort of merry bombardment over their heads.