Combeferre came the closest out of all of them to understanding what exactly Jehan was going on about. Grantaire had given up long ago, and had taken to staring rather intently at Enjolras. Enjolras had been having a whispered conversation with Courfeyrac. Feuilly and Bahorel had managed to slip away somewhere in the middle of Jehan’s (for lack of a better word) rant. Joly had tried, really, truly tried to pay attention, but at his discovery of a series of unexplained bruises on his arm, he began to panic slightly about the cause of them and possible effects of them, and tuned Jehan out completely. Bossuet had fallen asleep.
“…Now, do you all understand what poetry is about? It’s not what’s being said, sometimes, but what’s not being said,” Jehan finished.
Combeferre elbowed Bossuet awake. “Yes, exactly, Jehan. I think we all agree, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, rather desperately, surveying the room, hoping against hope that Jehan wouldn’t notice they’d stopped paying attention and start all over again.
Assents were mumbled from everyone.
Jehan beamed, thinking that he had finally gotten through to them.