Rather than say that which came to his mind first, Enjolras looked instead to the papers before him. The ink was still drying on his latest page, though he doubted he could finish it any time soon. So instead he sealed his ink bottle and set his pen aside. He wished he could be rid of this burden once and for all, but the others found some positive aspects of Grantaire that he could not see. Declaring him unfit for their cause would therefor make this a dictatorship rather than the democracy they sought. It would take a majority rule to bar the drunk from their meetings, which would never happen so long as the others considered him a friend.

There was a time when Enjolras had tried, but even his optimism has its limits. He would stir any man to action so long as there were the smallest spark of initiative within him, the smallest flicker of fury or justice. But a fleeting spark was the most he'd ever seen out of Grantaire. So often he'd seen the drunkard give impassioned speeches on any number of topics, and thought it meant there was hope behind those words. However, as rare as it might be, Enjolras knew this was one he could not help.

He rose to his feet, finally, his gaze moving back to Grantaire. "If it is nothing but a lack of coin which keeps you from drinking or gambling, then there is little my presence could change. Were I to chaperone you to every task, then what is the purpose of sending you?"