-1It was all a very awkward situation. We're sorry, your life is an accident. You're supposed to be dead, we meant to save another boy in your place. The old man, looking very uncomfortable, puts it more kindly, more gently, but it is what he means. The young man has grown good at that, good at weeding out the truth of the fancy, sugared phrases people use. The young girl with the curls is carried away, after she bursts into near-hysterical sobs, then, mercifully, faints. The young man can feel the dizziness returning, the blackness at the edges of his vision. A doctor has been called, the old man said.
The maid has gone to look after the girl, and the old man sits down next to the young one. There is a silence filled only by the young man's ragged breathing, his brow is creased with the pain of remaining conscious.
"What is your name, my boy?" the old man asks at last.
"Feuilly," he says. The wrong boy, he thinks. He faints with a sigh.
---
In the following fever, there are moments of lucidity in which the situation is explained to him. This old man, he went to the barricades to look after Marius Pontmercy, silly Pontmercy, Courfeyrac's roommate, the one with his head ever in the clouds and his sleeves worn through. It's a plausible mistake, Feuilly thinks. Pontmercy and he, they both are-- were, he corrects himself-- pale with black hair, though Pontmercy's curled, it is hard to tell such a thing when a boy is caked with his own blood. Both were skinny, though Feuilly is taller, but again, he thinks. Height is not something one can see when a boy is a near-corpse crumpled on the ground.
The young girl, she was in love with him, secretly. She was the mysterious lover Courfeyrac said Pontmercy had been mooning over. Most of the time, she avoids his room. When the old man, Fauchelevent, he's called, makes her bring in fresh bandages or food or water, she comes as quickly as she could and leaves just as quickly, in tears.
As Feuilly lies in his fever, Fauchelevent attempts to speak to the girl. Most days, she will not allow him into her room, but at last she admits him, and he stands awkwardly while she lies curled up on the bed.
"Cosette," he says at last, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. She lets him lay his hand on her back, and he can feel her thin shoulders shaking, as usual, with sobs muffled by her pillow.
"Oh, Papa!" she cried suddenly, flinging herself into his arms. "I cannot stand to have him here! We do not even know who he is, I want him to go away!"
"That is not very charitable of you," he says, scolding but gentle. "He has been shot, his ribs are broken, his leg is broken, he is delirious, there is no way we could move him to a hospital in this condition. Perhaps when he is better recovered…"
Cosette nods frantically, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
"Please, Papa! I… I do not mean to be uncharitable, but I cannot bear to see… to see him, and t-to think of…" She swallows and shakes her head. Fauchelevent holds her close, and, having never been in love, does not know what to say.
The boy recovers slowly. A month passes, and still he cannot be moved. Cosette spends her days in the yard, avoiding the garden. Fauchelevent approaches her and suggests, gently, maybe she ought to sit with the boy. That maybe a pretty, sweet girl could prove more relaxing for a young man. Cosette panics.
"I won't, Papa!" she cries, clenching her fists in her skirt.
"Why not?" he asks. Gently, gently. Cosette squirms a little, hesitating.
"He killed Marius!" she finally bursts out. "If not for him, you would have saved M-Marius and he would be alive and…" It is the first time she has spoken the name in over a month, and she breaks down sobbing.
"He did not," Fauchelevent says, more harshly than he means to. "The police shot him, God wished him dead. Do not blame that boy." It is the sharpest tone he has ever taken with her, and Cosette stares in shock. "You will go in and sit with him, as it is a good Christian's duty to do. And you will not upset him." Cosette has started to cry again, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. "Let Marius rest, my daughter."
---
She drags in a chair and sits awkwardly. He tosses and turns, but it is some time before she can bring herself to dip her cloth in her bowl and bathe his fevered face. He sighs at the cool touch and his features relax. He isn't handsome, Cosette thinks bitterly, not like Marius. His nose is too long and straight, his cheeks too sharp. When he finally stops tossing, Cosette gathers up her cloth and bowl and leaves as quickly as she can.
---
Fauchelevent makes her come again. He offers her a weak, bitter little smile as she carefully wipes down his forehead and helps him to eat a little soup. She helps him to lie back down and tucks him back in, then sits silently for a time, seeming to contemplate the floor.
"I am Cosette," she says at last.
"I'm Feuilly," he says softly, weakly. There is a pause, and he amends: "Pascal."
She nods, and suddenly he starts to cough. She jumps up, alarmed, as a small trickle of red begins at the corner of his mouth and splatters his white hand.
"What!" she cries. "Why do you cough that way? Please, I… shall I fetch water, or--? Papa!"
He shakes his head and gestures for her to sit down, and when he finally catches his breath, he lets her wipe his mouth and hand with her handkerchief. She wrings her hands, blue eyes wide.
"A bullet," he explains hoarsely. "It broke my ribs, the doctor said, and the edges scrape against my lung."
"Could they do nothing for it?" she asks, her hands knotting the bloodied handkerchief. "It… you worried me."
"I would not let them," he says shortly. "It would be expensive. I could afford no such thing, and would not let your father pay."
"Oh," Cosette says softly. He nods, there is a pause, and she quickly leaves.
She returns the next morning before Fauchelevent tells her to. He is completely insensible, thrashing and raving and it is all she can do to make him hold still. He shivers no matter how many blankets she stacks on him or how large she lets the fire grow. She is sweating, but his teeth chatter. She brushes his hair from his face, and he seizes her wrist.
"Please," he gasps, dark eyes wide and wild. "Please, go away."
"I cannot!" she says, trying to pull her arm away.
"Please!" he begs. "Let me! I want to die! I deserve to die, as they did! Please!"
"Don't say that," she whispers, pulling her arm out of his grasp, then pressing his hands in between hers. "Please, please don't say that. If he had to die, then you are going to live, I will see to it you do, monsieur, so please, please don't say that…"
"I do not deserve--"
"Hush!" she snaps, her hands still holding his. She kneels. "I will pray for you. I am praying for you, and you cannot stop me."
She recites every prayer she knows, whispers every hymn, and finally simply pleads in God's name. Fauchelevent comes in the next morning and finds her asleep, kneeling still, her head resting on the seat of her chair. The young man is asleep as well, for once peaceful, his forehead cool and dry. Fauchelevent shakes his daughter gently awake.
"Would you have us send him to the hospital now?" he asks. She pauses suddenly in rubbing her sore knees, knotting her fist in her dress. She shakes her head, curls flying.
"No," she whispers. "I… I want him to stay."