| Typist: | Abby Goutal |
| Birthdate: | August, 1806 |
| Hometown: | Not known. He refers to it derisively as "a nasty little town", but the evidence points to it being not so little; wherever it is, however, he does probably hail from one of its nastier areas. |
| Appearance: | Coarse dark hair, chronically untidy; brown eyes; blunt features ill-assorted. Tall, gawky, with deceptively awkward-looking hands, and absolutely no grace. |
| Parents: | Emile and Madeleine Grantaire. Papa was drunken, abusive, given to losing jobs, and died around 1830, basically unmourned. His saving grace, a basic honesty that in a more fortunate man might have been idealism, was well buried, and damned if you'll get his embittered eldest son to acknowledge it at all. Maman, a well-meaning woman, coming from a decent if poor family, married for love and repented at leisure, and was mostly incapable of summoning up the gumption to defy her husband. It is probably from her that R inherits his depressive tendencies. |
| Siblings: | Four sisters, two brothers, all younger, of whom he is closest both chronologically and emotionally to Jeanne (b. 1807). As their father had no inclination and their mother no energy to do much active parenting, the business of looking after the younger ones fell in large part to these two. Jeanne married young and badly; the others are either too young or too flighty to be attached. |
| Significant Others: | Various, few all that significant. In one universe, Jolanta Stelmaczyk, with all that implies. In another, he's the devoted lifelong companion of Marcelin Enjolras II, in whose arms he dies peacefully at the age of sixty-five. Otherwise, no. |
| Email/IM: | grantaire@postmark.net |
| Webpage: | http://www.mv.com/users/ang/grantaire.html |
| Appears In: | June First, 1832, The Definition of Love, Something Like Love (forthcoming). Assorted roleplays, including The Saga of Christian Caron. A couple of poems. |
| Other Info: | Troubled fellow, with a deep-rooted self-hatred and a masochistic streak that frankly worries his typist. Paris agrees with him, because of the anonymity. Oftentimes he'll wander the streets at night, utterly heedless of the perils thereof. Gamins like him. Waitresses don't. A kindly and well-to-do great-aunt is funding his alleged education. |
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