Chapter Text
It was a grey, blustery, overcast Sunday afternoon when Combeferre departed Paris. They had all gone to see him off as he boarded the carriage for his hometown in Gascony – with Enjolras, as usual, leading the pack. Serene and smiling, Combeferre pressed everyone’s hands and bid them all farewell, promising to bring fruit and goat cheeses and fine wines and whatever regional delights he could get his hands on when he returned. He called them all his dearest friends, his brothers, and said he would write as soon as he was settled.
On Enjolras (who was wearing what was – for him – an unusually forlorn expression to see him go) Combeferre had bestowed an extra pat on the shoulder and a murmur in the ear – presumably of reassurance. The moment the carriage was out sight down the road, their arms tired from so much vigorous waving, Enjolras had turned toward them all with a stony frown. He warned them that they would all have to work twice as hard in Combeferre’s absence, as, according to him, “that man does the work of any three!” Out of respect for his feelings, Joly resisted the urge to question the accuracy of this arithmetic.
On Joly, meanwhile, Combeferre had bestowed a mission – a mercy mission, it might be called. He’d suddenly come up to him and told the tale of how, not long ago, one desperate young gamine had run into the street in front of him, screaming for help because her friend had had her foot crushed by a fiacre. Combeferre had gone with the girl to see to this friend’s wound, and found a whole host – a sort of nest – of variously ill and wounded gamins, taking shelter together beneath a bridge out in one of the faubourgs. He had then commenced to visiting daily to attend to their various maladies, and now entrusted their care to Joly while he was away. He had looked almost impatient when Joly protested that he had not finished his training and was not qualified.
“Come – that’s a formality at this point,” Combeferre had returned. “You’re a week away from passing your examination; then you’ll be qualified for an internship! And I think I can pull some strings to get you assigned to the Necker with me! You’re ready.”
“But – examinations exist for a reason; wouldn’t you rather have a – a fully-qualified doctor who’s – already proven –?”
“I know you, Joly,” Combeferre insisted. “You know enough and you care enough; there’s no one I’d trust more to look after for these patients.” Joly had smiled nervously at this praise, but when he opened his mouth to object again, Combeferre got straight to the point. “That fact of the matter is, that if we do not help them, no one will help them. They’ll slip between the cracks, like so many before them. So just trust yourself, Joly – and you will do them good.”
What choice had he had then? His hands shook a little as he accepted a thin stack of papers for Combeferre’s hands – the location and notes on his current patients; the names and maladies of but a tiny handful of those suffering children that Paris had neglected.
This stack now sat on top of three heavy medical texts on edge of his desk, as he busied himself working twice as hard on Enjolras’s orders – drafting an address to be distributed at the medical school shortly before they broke up for the holiday, urging them, had they been tempted, not to trust Louis-Philippe or his July Monarchy, to stay vigilant against corruption, to question these changes, to hold onto and carefully conserve the rage in the hearts – and to strive, still, for the Republic.
Everyone had been a little out-of-sorts since the disappointing conclusion of July’s great upheaval: by turns angrier, graver and wearier – especially Enjolras, who always carried the fate of the people so perilously close to his heart. As for Joly, whatever weight of disappointment that dragged down his own heart at this news – though it was not inconsiderable – was at the moment outweighed by other tensions.
His examination, mere days away now, held even greater weight than it would have otherwise, for one reason. Joly’s parents had been fairly patient when he missed first two examinations, both due to being ill. But they did not have the seemingly endless patience of Bahorel’s, and drew the line after the third – which he had missed due to being in jail. (He’d been almost spitefully angry at Bahorel for involving him in such risky activities so close to exam dates, but then again – he could have said no. It wasn’t Bahorel’s fault.) They were outraged, and wrote in no uncertain terms that if he missed or failed one more, they would cut off his allowance – expecting, no doubt, that he’d have no choice but to return to them and their shipping business.
And because he was so near the end of the term, he was very near the end of this term’s allowance as well. Perhaps he’d spent too much on fancy cravats, or wine, or books, or bailing his friends out of jail, or theatre tickets for himself and Musichetta (and often Bossuet as well), or given too much to beggars, or had taken too many cabs when his knees got tired and stiff, but whatever it was, he’d misjudged gravely how much he could spend, and would need to be especially parsimonious to make it through the next few weeks without running out.
But before he could worry about preparing for his exam, there was this letter to the medical school, and his patients’ notes to study in preparation for meeting them tomorrow and knowing what he was dealing with. He ought to be honored and encouraged by Combeferre’s trust in him, but at the moment that trust felt like a heavy shackle.
In the light of that trust, he felt especially called upon to try and be serious – though he wasn’t really sure he was a very serious person. And in the light of Enjolras’s gloomy frown, he felt especially called upon to be cheerful – which, while usually his forte, and his natural state, was also beginning to feel too much like a responsibility, which rather diminished the genuine joy.
And, to top it all off, his beloved Musichetta was also away on summer travels – visiting an aunt out in La Rochelle. Her last letter, which contained a sketch she’d done of the coastline with the famous Medieval turrets, was now pinned to the wall beside his desk.
Joly dragged his eyes and his mind from this sketch, where he’d been staring at it and day dreaming, and back to the work at hand – namely, finishing this confounded address. That could serve a dual purpose, after all – surely, one of the best ways to make Enjolras smile was to do good work for the Republic! But his address was dragging a little. Bossuet and Bahorel, who had been collaborating on their own address to the law school, had finished within an hour and a half, and from the few snatches of their conversation that Joly overheard from the next room, they were putting at least as much effort into puns, innuendos and none-too-subtle scorn of their professors as they were into making their case for Republicanism and continued resistance.
“One must know one’s audience,” Bossuet grinned, when they had finished and come in to invite Joly to dinner. “Truth itself it but a fragment of lawyering; it’s all about parlor tricks and of appealing to the particular tastes and prejudices – speaking their language, as it were. And the vast majority of law students are idle, sarcastic bastards who hate all their professors!”
“Marius Pontmercy never struck me as a sarcastic bastard,” Joly pointed out.
“Yes, well,” laughed Bossuet, “Marius Pontmercy does tend to be an outlier, doesn’t he? He is an anomaly of a law student that defies every natural law.”
“Pity he seems less inclined to defy state laws while he’s about it!” put in Bahorel. “Our address is therefore intended to appeal to the more natural breed – who study the law only to laugh at it!”
“I am bound to believe you,” Joly smiled, “and hope it may prove effective rhetoric for drawing them to the cause! But, alas! I am afraid what appeals to medical students is – empirical evidence!”
“You’re going to scientifically prove the superiority of Republicanism?” Bossuet asked incredulously.
“I am endeavoring to appeal both to their logic and to their humanity,” replied Joly, turning back with a frown to his paper, and the several open books surrounding it, “as every medical student ought to have an ample respect for both – for what is a physician’s aim, if not to wield logic and science in the pursuit of lessening a fellow-creature’s suffering? And think of what advances in medicine have been made since the Revolution! And even in its philosophies! By various solid, factual examples, therefore, one may make the case that a Republican government will more surely and efficiently safeguard and prioritize the health of her people! It only . . . takes a while, to properly research and prepare one’s arguments! And . . . forgive me, but I think it’s just possible that a larger proportion of medical students take their studies – erm, a bit more seriously.”
Bossuet grinned, idly tapping the topmost of the heavy textbooks on Joly’s desk. He said, “Evidently.”
“Well, it is well for the two of you, with your combined wit, to write something so clever so quickly!” Joly laughed, endeavoring hard not to sound too envious. “And indeed, if Combeferre were here to aid me in this address, he could no doubt get his point across much more eloquently in much fewer words, but – he is not; they are stuck with me. And perhaps it lacks the flair and fire of the best of Republican rhetoric, but – it is the best I can do.”
Bossuet patted his shoulder. “Then we leave you to it, my dear boy,” he replied softly, “though we shall lament the loss of your company for dinner.”
“But we shall drink many toasts to the health of such a devoted Republican!” added Bahorel, as they passed out the door.
The sky was dark, his temples were throbbing, his brain felt fried, and his stomach was growling by the time he finished the address to his satisfaction. The smile of relief and satisfaction afforded by finally completing his task was slightly undermined by the presence of his medical texts and his patients’ notes on the side of his desk, untouched and still awaiting his attention.
He checked his pocket-watch in the candlelight. It was nearly ten o’clock. No wonder he was so hungry. If he was going to get any more done tonight, then surely, he could focus better with a full stomach. He’d go and get a light supper at the Corinthe – he’d just ask for a little bread and the soup du jour, set his mind to rest and dwell on lighter subjects for the duration of the meal – and then back to work.
When he arrived, Gibelotte greeted him with her weary smile.
“Good evening, Monsieur Joly!”
“Good evening!” he returned. He glanced around. “All alone tonight? Where is Matelote?”
“Down with the fever, I am afraid,” Gibelotte replied. “And Monsieur as well. Madame is tending to them.”
“Good Lord, how horrible!” exclaimed Joly. “Would you like me to –?”
“No, no, a doctor has seen them,” Gibelotte replied quickly. She smiled at him, and beckoned him toward the staircase that led to the first floor. “You are not here to work, Monsieur.”
“No, indeed, it seems all the work of these twilight hours has fallen upon your poor shoulders,” Joly observed sympathetically as he followed her up the stairs.
“The work is lighter,” she assured him, “when my customers are friendly! And speaking of that – a couple of your friends were in earlier tonight! And one of them is still here!”
“Oh? Which one?” Joly asked curiously as they emerged onto the first floor.
“One guess,” laughed Gibelotte, inclining her head a little toward a table in a distant corner, where Grantaire was sitting alone surrounded by empty wine bottles.
Joly bit his lip, and almost considered turning around and going back downstairs. He hated to be unfriendly, and he hated himself for the thought – but the thought remained – that he wasn’t really in the mood for Grantaire.
Joly needed to stay focused on what he had to do – his duties to the Republic, to the ailing gamins, to the medical school. And Grantaire’s influence was not always very conducive to being serious or being cheerful.
And it wasn’t Grantaire’s fault, really, but Joly knew he was suggestible, easily led. Of course, one did not join a group like the Friends of the ABC without a healthy dose of defiance, rebellion and independence, and yet every man’s nature contained contradictions, and there was, in Joly’s, something that tended to yield – to adapt itself, chameleon-like, the voices and ideas that surrounded him. It was perhaps the same quirk in the composition of his nervous system that made him sometimes tremble or start to feel ill when he read about illnesses. He had once almost mortally offended a friend of Feuilly’s – a fierce and proud Polish refugee who spoke halting and heavily-accented French – by unconsciously copying his accent. Feuilly had had to take the man aside and assure him in broken Polish that Joly meant no harm, had not even done it on purpose, and had by no means meant to mock him or his countrymen.
And around Grantaire, who was generally a larger, louder, and more dominant presence, Joly yielded. He drank more, swore more, and once – after he’d cried drunkenly on Grantaire’s shoulder for an hour about how Musichetta didn’t love him anymore – he had nearly let Grantaire talk him into throwing himself at another woman, before Bossuet intervened.
But by now Grantaire had looked up, and taken the choice out of his hands.
“Jolllly!”
“Good evening, Grantaire!” grinned Joly.
Grantaire, though a little unsteady on his feet, easily pulled Joly to his table, exclaiming wildly, “You look ghastly! Bossuet told me Enjolras still had you working like a slave to finish your address! What a tyrant that man is!”
“Not at all,” Joly smiled wearily. “I volunteered for it! It is my cause as well – Enjolras only directs us! And certainly, one may be a leader without being a tyrant!”
“Ha! That’s not what Enjolras says about kings, now, is it?”
“Well, it’s – it’s more complicated than that, Grantaire . . .”
But Grantaire was not in the humor for listening, only for talking – which was the usual state of affairs when he’d had this much to drink. So Joly silently swallowed his earthenware bowl of tasteless soup and bread while nodding along, half-listening, to Grantaire expounding on the world’s ills, and how nothing ever changed. This was a familiar tune for him, especially since July, though whether he expressed it a tone of infuriating smugness – that he alone knew the world, unlike the rest of these naïve fools! – or of heartbreaking despair, depended on the hour. Joly meant to present his counterpoint when Grantaire stopped talking, but Grantaire did not stop talking even as Joly finished eating. Joly checked his watch as it neared to eleven o’clock.
“W-well, I ought to go,” Joly eventually said, when Grantaire finally paused for breath, and to gulp down another glass.
“No, no, stay,” Grantaire protested, clinging to his arm. “Stay – drink with me.”
Joly sighed, and thought of his exam, and his patients – of the necessity of rising earlier than usual to meet them, and of his soft, warm, neglected bed. A responsible person would have said no. Combeferre would have said no. But Grantaire’s expression was a little desperate.
“One glass,” he conceded, sitting down again.
Four glasses later, Joly had lost half a dozen billiards matches, a further handful of money that Grantaire had somehow managed to convince him to bet on the outcome – even though he knew Grantaire was much better at it – and was staring into the dregs of this fourth cup, regretting everything.
Grantaire might have been still talking – he wasn’t sure. Earlier on, he’d tried to argue a little – yes, certainly, there were ills in the world to be fixed – in the body, in the law, the whole of society! But that was what doctors and lawyers and some artists and revolutionaries were for – to correct those problems! Think of the progress that had already been made, since the Revolution! Slowly but surely, the human race was embracing the light! But Grantaire had ignored him.
Joly was in what he had categorized as the thin middle stage of his drunkenness. The first stage merely made him extra-giggly, and the third stage tended to fill him with a warm, desperate, verbose, extremely tactile love for everything and everyone in his line of sight. Vividly, and with no little embarrassment over what Enjolras must have thought of him, he recalled a time – early in his acquaintance both with the Friends of the ABC, and with drink – when he’d discovered the third stage, in the presence of Enjolras of all people. He had embraced him on the spot and sobbed into his shirt about how much he loved him, he was an angel, he was going to save the world. . . (Bossuet reported after that, though his own memory of the incident was hazy, Enjolras had responded by awkwardly patting him on the back, addressing him as “Citizen”, thanking him for his enthusiasm, and advising him to go to bed.)
But he had not reached that stage, and he didn’t wish to tonight, because it was much more debilitating the next day. The middle stage merely made him paranoid; it corrupted and frenzied his warm concern for those around him into terror. He looked from Grantaire, red-faced, slouching, to the ever-exhausted look of Gibelotte’s shades eyes. And – and Matelote and Father Hucheloup were ill, too! And Marius so often looked half-starved, and Enjolras looked so pale sometimes – for hours at a time . . .
“. . . And all the world is ailing, Jolllly! Look at everything around us, sickly and misshapen. Creation was a mistake, and I mean to have words whoever arranged it. All these lawyers and doctors and revolutionists are thinking they can change something – thinking they can hold their own against this inescapable void of entropy! Why, if the world were not so deformed, such being as I would never have been born! Gibelotte!” he suddenly called, seizing her by the wrist and dragging her toward their table, “as that Danish fool said, get thee to a nunnery! why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? They say convents prefer ugly women, anyway. . .”
“All right,” Joly standing suddenly, and unsteadily. “You - you’ve had enough, Grantaire. Let’s go home!”
Grantaire went, with only murmured protest, and Joly mouthed an apology to Gibelotte as he half-dragged, half-led him out.
Joly was unsteady enough on his own feet, and the added dead weight of Grantaire – who was not exactly a small man – leaning against him nearly buckled his knees several times at they wended their way back toward Grantaire’s rooms in the Latin Quarter.
“Look,” Joly panted as he dragged Grantaire around a bend, “there’s the Musain! We’re – we’re – nearly there! But, I say, could you – could you possibly – possibly – reposition a bit?” For as they currently stood, the angle of Grantaire’s weight was pressing very painfully on Joly’s bad knee. But Grantaire was still not listening, and not moving.
“Just – just a little, please, if you don’t mind!”
“Grantaire!” called a clear and stern voice suddenly, “stand up straight, for pity’s sake! You’re hurting Joly!”
Enjolras was approaching from the direction of the Musain. And Grantaire, as ever, responded to that voice as he did no other. Enjolras easily took his place on the other side of Grantaire – and Grantaire immediately, and enthusiastically, shifted most of his weight over to him. Joly stumbled back in relief, kneeling a moment, massaging his knee.
“You should go home, Joly,” said Enjolras’s voice, from somewhere above him. “I can get him the rest of the way.”
“No, no!” said Joly, dragging himself to his feet again and smiling. “That’s all right, I can help.”
“You’re exhausted,” Enjolras pointed out, “and it’s only a short distance. You did most of the work.” He glanced over at Grantaire, clinging to his arm, for a moment, with an expression of contempt that was not unmixed with something more confused. “You’re very – good to him, Joly,” he observed softly.
“He’s my friend,” Joly shrugged. “I do what I can!”
“Yes, well,” said Enjolras, “allow me, then to do what I can, for you. Go home. Let me handle this.”
Though he felt he should, he did not have the strength to protest any further. “Thank you, Enjolras,” he smiled, pressing his hand.
Enjolras returned the smile tightly, and said, “Good night, Joly!” And then he was leading Grantaire away, his face still pale, stern, and gloomy, but with a gentle touch and stride – and Joly was turning back toward home.
“I thought you’d stay the night at Bahorel’s,” Joly greeted Bossuet when he arrived, as he settled wearily down at his desk.
“Oh yes, so did I,” said Bossuet, “but then Jehan showed up and stole him from me! Had some harebrained scheme to propose – and you know Bahorel can never say no to a harebrained scheme! Thus, I return, a rootless wanderer, cast aside in favor of shenanigans!”
“Well, nobody can say no to Jehan,” Joly returned consolingly, “least of all Bahorel! But good heavens, it was rather hard of them not to invite you to join in their shenanigans! Why, I’d rank you as a classical master of the shenanigan arts!”
“Oh, I’m much obliged, my dear fellow, but apparently these particular shenanigans required musical talent,” Bossuet replied, “and regrettably, it did not amuse the Muses and Graces to grace me with any music!”
“Alas!” cried Joly, “we have but little music between us, I am afraid!”
“Well, our little music is enough, I daresay, as long as it is bright and merry! And anyways, I’d contend that you have a very pleasant tenor – when you can manage to stay on pitch!”
“You mean when I’m not – latching on and following stronger voices singing a different part than my own,” sighed Joly.
“Precisely so!” Bossuet laughed in agreement, but then bit his lip. “But do I detect some melancholy metaphor in that?” he asked.
“Well, I have learned from many a master of melancholy metaphors,” Joly grinned wearily. “No one can say no to Jehan, but I apparently also can’t say no to drinking with Grantaire – even when I really ought to . . .”
“One pities Grantaire,” Bossuet observed, “and I have never known you, my dear boy, to let prudence take precedence over pity.” He placed a hand on Joly’s shoulder. “But one also pities the man who must drink alone with him.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I was no match for his melancholy today,” Joly frowned.
“Well, we do work better in concert,” Bossuet agreed, smiling. “As a duet! Ironic, given the aforementioned lack of musical talent!”
“Do you know, I worry about Grantaire sometimes,” Joly said.
“You worry about everyone,” smiled Bossuet. “Go to bed!”
“Can’t,” Joly breathed. “I still have – to prepare for my patients tomorrow, and to study . . .”
“Well, pick one,” said Bossuet, “or you won’t be alive enough tomorrow to do any good by it!”
“True,” Joly conceded. “Patients must come first, then . . .”
And in the dim light his candle, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and settled down to pour over his patients’ notes.
He rose excruciatingly early to meet the gamins, the grogginess of his head from last night’s melancholy revel dissipating somewhat in the brisk air of his walk – though it again made his one knee throb immoderately to walk so far.
They greeted him rather warily as he approached their little bridge, asking what had become of the other doctor. Joly took out his notes and tried to match names to faces and maladies, but Combeferre’s handwriting was not the best. Two children – a brother and sister – had influenza, and were curled up together in a single blanket, shivering. Another patient was the girl, Mylene, whose foot had been crushed by a cart.
Joly’s stomach contracted as he approached. Her foot was gone and the stump was swathed in bandages. Combeferre had evidently had to amputate it, and he she whimpered a little as Joly, as gently as he could, removed the dirty bandages, cleaned the wound, and wrapped what remained of her leg up in a new one.
He then reached a girl – Adrienne, according to the girl next to her – who was red in the face and gasping for breath. Her forehead was burning to the touch, and her pulse was weak and dangerously rapid. Joly tried to consult the, but either Adrienne was new or her name was illegible, and Joly didn’t know what to do to help her. She was whimpering a little in her delirium, her breath coming in great gasps. Joly gently pried her mouth open to examine her tongue – and the signature white strawberry-seed pattern told all.
She had scarlet fever. And there was not much to be done for scarlet fever.
Joly’s own breath caught a little. He couldn’t just watch her lay there and die! Or else what was he doing? He brought over a cloth of soaked in river-water to try and cool her down, knowing even as he went how useless such a thing would be in her condition. What was he to do? She should have been seen much earlier! She should have a doctor who knew better than Joly! Someone qualified! Someone who could work miracles!
Madly, Joly picked her up in his arms, and began to dash off to get a cab – to take to the hospital, where somebody qualified might know how to to help her! But before he had even reached the street, he heard, with a pang, the death-rattle of her final breath – and then she breathed no more.