Enjolras lights a candle at the desk. He turns down the room's nearly heatless lamps with the little switch on the wall: dimming them, then extinguishing them entirely. He sits down to amend his messages to Joly and Bossuet and Bahorel and Grantaire, to write a second note to Courfeyrac. His movements are quiet and efficient.

But there's a glow of contentment in his face; a small and perhaps unconscious smile sometimes rises. When he folds the notes and rises, he pauses long enough to glance at Combeferre -- another dear friend here at last, limp not in death but in peaceful sleep -- before he goes to the door with the intent of slipping quietly out to find a rat messenger.