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Most people, upon breaking into a king's bedchamber, would do what they had come to do and leave posthaste.
Grantaire is not most people, so he pours himself a glass of wine first. It's good wine, much better than the vintages typically served by the Musain. It's a pity that taking the whole bottle would be construed as theft, and Grantaire would never lower himself to such a thing.
A single glass, however, is merely refreshment. It's thirsty work, after all.
He manages two good sips of wine before the king stirs and awakens. His reaction is admirably level-headed, though not at all useful.
"Guards!" he calls.
"No need for that, your majesty," Grantaire says gently.
"Guards!" he shouts again.
Grantaire shakes his head. "I'm afraid I wouldn't expect them to answer--not until tomorrow, at least, and by then it'll all be rather pointless. Laudanum is a funny thing, you know. Tastes awful, but if you mix it just right with bad wine..." They'll wake up with the worst hangover of their lives, and in a carriage halfway to Calais, but they will wake up, at least. Grantaire has a professional's distaste for collateral damage.
The king seems to have accepted the idea that no one is coming to rescue him. "What do you want?" he asks.
Grantaire shrugs. "Well, a man who shows up in a king's bedroom in the middle of the night can be after one of only two things, I suppose. And I'm very sorry, but my heart belongs to another."
"You're here to kill me."
"Yes. But if it helps, I do feel rather bad about it. Can I interest you in a nice exile, instead? I hear there's a vacancy on Saint Helena."
The king spits at Grantaire's feet.
He heaves a sigh. "I thought as much. Please understand, this is--"
"Nothing personal?" the king asks sharply, one eyebrow arched.
"Oh no," Grantaire says softly. "It's entirely personal." He takes a long sip of the king's wine. "The way I see it, it's either you, or him. And there's no question, is there? It's got to be him."
The king doesn't ask who he's talking about, which is good. Grantaire has been known to wax poetic about Enjolras, and he doesn't have time for that tonight. He pulls a rolled sheet of fine paper out of a pocket and lays it on the table, smoothing it carefully with gloved hands.
The king eyes it suspiciously. "Your demands? I thought this was an assassination, not a kidnapping."
"Oh. It is." Grantaire grimaces. "This is your suicide letter, I'm afraid. Detailing your fears that the rebels will bring forth the guillotine again, and how you seek to cheat them of a spectacle. It's an honorable way to go," he says anxiously. "They'll build statues to you, one day. Hell, I've a good hand with a chisel, maybe I'll make one myself. To honor your sacrifice."
The king peers at the letter, but the light is too dim to read by. Grantaire prefers it that way--shadows make his work much easier. The letter itself will hold up in to any scrutiny, of course; the handwriting is indistinguishable from the king's, and with everything in such an uproar, no one is likely to look too closely at what happens here in this room.
Not that he will leave any trace behind. He clears his throat. "If you'd like to--say a prayer, or something? I'm more the Small Gods sort, myself, not sure what people of faith do in a situation like this. Take your time."
He's moving as he speaks, not slowly or quickly, but carefully. You wouldn't know it, to see him slouched in the cafe, but Grantaire is a trained dancer. All his sort of people are--you need to understand the way a body moves (even while still living), how to slip closer with such grace and subtlety that your companion is not sure you've moved. And his ability to creep up on Enjolras unaware is a source of endless personal amusement.
The king says nothing, and Grantaire continues. "There's no knowing for sure, as you can't very well ask someone, but it's said that there isn't much pain. And if there is--well, there's a comfort in knowing it won't last long."
While he's still talking, very gently, he slides the dagger home.
He folds the king's hands around the hilt of the dagger and releases them, letting his hands fall in a natural attitude. He arranges the letter on the king's table where it will be seen almost immediately when his servants come to wake him in the morning.
And then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he entered. There is no one left to watch him go.
* * *
No one, that is, except the king, standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.
"Excuse me!" he calls after the young man who had tried to kill him. "I said, excuse me."
HE CANNOT HEAR YOU.
"Well, why the devil not? It isn't as though I mumbled. But he just walked right past me as if I were a--oh. Oh, damn."
PRECISELY.