Combeferre was lucky that so far none of the blood on his clothes was his own. There had been a lull since Marius had driven the National Guard back, their wounded were being arranged on the mattresses, and he had been splinting arms and wrapping bandages. There was an old man who had been a doctor in the last war: Joly was assisting him as he saw what he could do for more severe injuries. Combeferre had taken a turn earlier; the more Joly had to do, the less attention he paid to his cold.
The wounded had been collected, but a few bodies still had not. Combeferre approached one of the Guards who had been killed before Marius drove them out of the barricade, and bent down to grab him by the arms.
He was breathing.
That was the best thing that could be said for his condition. The arm for which Combeferre was about to reach was covering a wound to his stomach: most likely from a bayonet, possibly a sword, in any case likely to be fatal.
"Who is there?" the dying man gasped, rousing to the best of his ability at the footsteps.
"Your captor, tonight," Combeferre answered. "But one with some knowledge of medicine." He lifted the man's arm away from the wound. A closer look did not change his initial opinion. Gut wounds were ugly things. It was still only a matter of painful time.
The Guard found his voice again. "You are armed?"
"I have a musket," Combeferre answered. "So you will not be able to overpower me after all, I am afraid."
"Shoot me."
Combeferre froze for a moment. The man gasped again, "Can you help me?"
"No," Combeferre answered. The old doctor had looked at one of their men with a similar injury and said his best hope was to spend as much of his life as remained unconscious: there was certainly nothing Combeferre could do.
"Then shoot me."
Combeferre stood and examined his musket. As he did, Enjolras, surveying the current situation all around the barricade, approached the scene.
"Hughes, how long will that one live?"
"Longer than some of us, perhaps. It depends on who fires next."
"Mercy," the man on the ground gasped. Combeferre positioned the barrel of the musket against his head.
"Would you throw away a prisoner we might exchange?" Enjolras asked. "If they take one of ours in the next assault, how do we know we will have so little time as when…" He hesitated to speak the name of Jehan.
"His friends would be smarter not to ask for him to suffer." Combeferre turned from his cousin back to the man on the ground. "Prepare yourself," he instructed. A moment later, he pulled the trigger.
"A waste of powder, to shoot dead men," Enjolras observed.
"I believe that was the best use of it I have made all night," came the answer.