"Matelote is ugly," he cried; "Matelote is the ideal of ugliness; she is a chimera. Here is the secret of her birth,--a Gothic Pygmalion, who was carving cathedral gargoyles, fell in love on a fine morning with the most horrible of them. He implored love to animate it, and this produced Matelote. Look at her, citizens! She has chromate-of-lead-colored hair, like Titian's mistress, and is a good girl; I will answer that she fights well, for every good girl contains a hero. As for Mother Hucheloup, she is an old brave. Look at her mustachios; she inherited them from her husband. She will fight too, and the couple will terrify the whole of the suburbs. Comrades, we will overthrow the Government so truly as there are fifteen intermediate acids between margaric acid and formic acid; however, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me. My father always detested me because I could not understand mathematics; I only understand love and liberty. I am Grantaire, the good fellow; never having had any money, I have not grown accustomed to it, and for that reason have never wanted it; but, had I been rich, there would be no poor left! You would have seen! Oh, if good hearts had large purses, how much better things would be! I can imagine the Saviour with Rothschild's fortune! What good he would do! Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and timid; you have cheeks that claim the kiss of a sister, and lips that claim the kiss of a lover!" "Hold your tongue, barrel!" Courfeyrac said. Grantaire replied,-- "I am the Capitoul and master of the Floral games!" Enjolras, who was standing on the top of the barricade, gun in hand, raised his handsome, stern face. Enjolras, as we know, blended the Spartan with the Puritan; he would have died at Thermopylæ with Leonidas, and burned Drogheda with Cromwell. "Grantaire," he cried, "go and sleep off your wine elsewhere; this is the place for intoxication, and not for drunkenness. Do not dishonor the barricade." These stinging words produced on Grantaire a singular effect, and it seemed as if he had received a glass of cold water in his face. He appeared suddenly sobered, sat down near the window, gazed at Enjolras with inexpressible tenderness, and said to him,-- "Let me sleep here." "Go and sleep elsewhere," Enjolras cried. But Grantaire, still fixing on him his tender and misty eyes, answered,-- "Let me sleep here till I die here." Enjolras looked at him disdainfully. "Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, thinking, wishing, living, and dying." Grantaire replied in a grave voice,-- "You will see." He stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his head fell noisily on the table, and--as is the usual effect of the second period of ebriety into which Enjolras had roughly and suddenly thrust him--a moment later he was asleep. CHAPTER IV. AN ENDEAVOR TO CONSOLE THE WIDOW HUCHELOUP. Bahorel, delighted with the barricade, exclaimed, "How well the street looks décolleté!"