Marius stood in the street for a moment, rooted to the ground by the enormity of what had just happened. He had lost Cosette. He had lost her forever. Marius' reverie was broken by a violent shout, from a few streets away; the shout was followed by gunshots and other panicked cries. Marius, then, saw what he ought to do, very clearly before him. He must die. He had lost Cosette - what was the point of living? He would not kill himself with either of the guns; no, that was tainted with her memory. No, first he must suffer before he can die. He had been so enormously stupid as to lose his life source, the goddess of his world - he deserved to suffer as penance.

Marius did not know what exactly he was planning to do; he walked to Courfeyrac's apartment building, as one possessed. It started to rain, half-way through his walk home, but he did not care. He remembered once at Rue Plumet, it had started to rain, and he and Cosette had taken refuge under a lovely, overgrown oak tree, while the thunder and lightening crashed around them. Cosette had loved it. But what was the point of the rain now, if he couldn't see the delighted wonder on her face?

Marius reached Courfeyrac's apartment building. He knocked on the door; after a long time, the porter answered and let him in. It was clear he had risen the porter from his bed. But Marius didn't care about being impolite. Without another word, he pushed inside, and climbed the stairs up to the first floor. He let himself into the apartment - Courfeyrac never locked the door - and was confronted by a sight he would never forget.

A group of young men, dishevelled, sweaty, exhausted, standing at various points around the apartment, all with their attention focussed on the two figures in the middle of the room; one, a badly wounded young man lying on a couch, weakly looking around at his surroundings; the other, an angelically beautiful, blonde boy who was looking down at the other young man with unmistakable tenderness in his eyes. Before Marius could say anything, Courfeyrac, who he had previously not recognized from amongst the group, came forward.

"Ah, my dear friend! Now you have arrived, the party can begin!" Courfeyrac threw his head back and laughed charmingly, as if it were the most amusing of jokes.

The blonde boy, without taking his eyes off the wounded man, said in a warning tone, "Courfeyrac, please, the task at hand?"

"Oh, yes, of course, Enjolras. Just trying to lighten the tension a bit. Well, you see, my dear Pontmercy, we happened to be running away from some rather pugnacious National Guards, and it just so happened -"

Enjolras spoke up again, now with an edge of anger. "Courfeyrac!"

"Fine. You heard, Marius, about the riots after the funeral?"

Marius nodded.

"Les Amis - that is to say, the men of the august company whose company you rejected - were involved in said riots. Only we don't like to think of it as a mere "riot" - it would be a disrespect to the revolution to call it only that!"

Marius spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. "Courfeyrac, not that I don't appreciate your editorializing things, but I'd really rather like to know what you're all doing here."

Courfeyrac, seemingly reproved, explained what had happened at Rue de la Chanvrerie. Marius said nothing throughout, but just stood near the corner, looking more and more angry and worried by the moment. He could barely contain his response until Courfeyrac finished the story.

"Courfeyrac, what on earth were you thinking? The police will track you down, and they'll arrest you, and they'll arrest me along with you, and we'll all be condemned to die because you couldn't control yourselves! You know what, maybe I should just turn you in, the whole sorry lot of you, you can't do this to me!"

Enjolras, who had stayed very quiet and still during Courfeyrac's tale, now jumped to his feet and grabbed Marius by the shoulders.

"Pontmercy! You don't like me and I certainly don't like you. The last thing you want to do in the world is help us; I understand that. But you have to. Courfeyrac is your friend, and we, we are your brothers. If you turn us in, our lives will be on your conscience. When you're an old man, alone, on your deathbed, do you want to remember the six men you condemned to die, simply because you were too much of a coward? Or, do you want to look back, and remember with pride the fact that your better nature won out, that you stood up for what's right and good?"

Enjolras, breathing heavily, relaxed his hold on Marius, who immediately jerked away. The tension was broken by an anguished cry from the man on the couch. The blonde boy immediately returned to the man's side and said, in a whisper so quiet that Marius had to strain to hear,

"Please, Combeferre, you can do it. Keep breathing. We'll get help for you soon, I promise."

Enjolras bent his head over Combeferre's for a moment, before rising to his feet.

"Courfeyrac - Feuilly - Bousset - Pontmercy - in the bedroom, now."

Marius resented being ordered about so, but a glance from Courfeyrac told him it would be better for him to obey. He followed the others into the room, where Enjolras had already seated himself at the desk. He didn't look up; he was finishing writing something. Enjolras still didn't acknowledge them, as he carefully sprinkled pounce over the writing. He had applied the blotting paper before he looked up at the waiting group.

"My friends. It is better that you know the full situation. Joly and Combeferre are the only ones among our number who know any medicine. Combeferre needs medical attention, now. Joly has sustained a serious wound to his right hand that has, for our purposes, crippled him. I don't trust any doctors not to talk, and we don't have the funds to bribe a surgeon to keep quiet. We will have to find a solution ourselves. Combeferre is still bleeding; our most important task is to stop the blood. Joly's hand has stopped bleeding, but the wound needs to be cleaned and bandaged. Now - Pontmercy, go down to the porter, ask for hot water. I don't care how you excuse it, say you want to take a bath. Courfeyrac, I need you to start looking for old clothes that could be used as bandages - don't give me that look, I know you have a whole drawer of out-of-fashion cravats alone. Feuilly, help Joly onto the pallet by the window, and get him comfortable. Bousset, I want you to go and get Musichetta, she'll can help Joly more than we can. Tell her to go to number 18, rue St. Denis, and ask for Charlotte. I've written her a note, she'll go with Musichetta. Then, she and Charlotte should come directly here."

There was a questioning look from all of the young men standing before Enjolras. Courfeyrac spoke for all of them, asking, "Who's Charlotte?"

"Combeferre's older sister. She's his only relative here in Paris - she'd want to know."

Enjolras took the scrap of paper on the desk that he had been writing on, folded it up, and handed it to Bousset, who started to air his opinions that it wasn't safe for Musichetta to walk the streets alone. Without another word, Enjolras went back out into the living room, where Combeferre and Joly were grimacing in equal expressions of pain. Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bousset went about completing their tasks relatively cheerfully, given the circumstances. Stunned by this harsh dismissal, Marius, however, remained fixed to the ground. After a moment, he went out into the living room, where Feuilly was helping Joly to his feet, and Enjolras was kneeling next to Combeferre, evidently informing the injured man of the state of affairs. As Enjolras placed his hands behind Combeferre's neck, and at the backs of his knees, Marius could hear him add, "This will hurt, I'm afraid. I'll try to be gentle, though." Enjolras picked Combeferre up and, with the greatest of care, carried him to the bedroom. Marius, dazed by the events of the last hour, watched dumbly.

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac had assembled a collection of old cravats and waistcoats, which he felt could be sacrificed. He brought them to Enjolras, who immediately began ripping the clothes into long strips. Courfeyrac grabbed a flowery waistcoat and pressed it to Combeferre's wound, which was still gushing blood. As the waistcoat became increasingly soaked in blood, Courfeyrac looked about wildly for a replacement. In doing so, he caught sight of Marius, standing about aimlessly, and shouted,

"Marius! Get the water! We have no time for you to be lackadaisical!"

This cut through Marius' reverie somewhat, and he remembered what he was to do. Going out into the hallway, he called down to the porter. When no response came, he went downstairs, and knocked on the porter's door. After a few minutes, the porter appeared, wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown, and looking very bleary-eyed indeed.

"What is it now, Monsieur Marius? You do realize it's past midnight?"

"I need a big pot of hot water - not boiling, just hot. The biggest pot you have."

The porter gave him a disbelieving look.

Marius added, "If you can prepare that now, I'll wait here and carry it up myself."

"If I may ask, Monsieur, why, at such a late hour, do you need hot water?"

"I got wet coming home - I'd rather like to take a bath." The lie did not sound natural coming from Marius' lips, and he nervously waited for the porter to ask what was really going on in the apartment. The porter, however, seemed too exhausted to question Marius, and did as he asked. After some time, Marius carried the large pot up the stairs, the red-hot handles wrapped in towels. He pushed the door of the apartment open, sloshing hot water down his front in the process. His skin burning, Marius carried the water into the bedroom with considerably more care, at last depositing it on the bedside table. Enjolras, who had evidently been waiting anxiously, immediately dipped a cloth into the water, and began to carefully dab away at Combeferre's wound, which had stopped bleeding. Luckily, the student had fallen asleep, and, as such, could not feel Enjolras' ministrations, which were doubtless very painful.

Courfeyrac filled an empty, clean wine bottle with water, and, taking a cloth, knelt on the floor next to Joly's pallet, and began to clean his wound. Joly, who was still awake, groaned loudly in pain. After the first cry, however, Joly seemed resolved to bear his suffering more manfully, and kept silent throughout the rest of the operation, although his pale face and white lips still betrayed his pain. Courfeyrac finished cleaning the wound and, as he left to wash his hands, Feuilly took over, and bandaged Joly's hand. This done, Joly fell into a fitful sleep, seemingly overcome with exhaustion.

Enjolras, meanwhile, was still cleaning Combeferre's wound. He seemed to have found something that worried him greatly. After a few minutes of just looking, he called Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Marius over to confirm his opinion. There, wedged deep within in the tissue, was a bullet.

"It must come out, of course! It can't stay in." Courfeyrac was the first to speak.

"I don't dare to - if I make a mistake, it will finish him off. I hardly know anything about medicine, and I assume none of you are much better off. We can't take the bullet out without a significant risk." Enjolras looked down again at the wound.

"We can't just leave it in!" Feuilly came into the conversation. "I've read about this, if it is left in, it could cause an infection that could kill Combeferre. We have to take the bullet out!"

Enjolras buried his head in his hands. Marius, who had remained silent up until now, spoke.
"There's nothing we can do about it at present. We're all exhausted - even if you tried to take the bullet out, there's a better chance than not that you'd make a fatal mistake in your exhaustion. I suggest that we bandage him up, and see how he does in a few hours. It's all we can do."

Enjolras seemed ready to protest, but, after a moment, he visibly surrendered.

"You're right. We all need to rest, and we'll address the matter first thing in the morning."

He seized a handful of the cloth strips, and began to wrap them around Combeferre's torso, refusing all offers of assistance. The finished product was somewhat clumsy, showing the lack of knowledge in the doctor - but it can be assured that no bandaging had ever been done with more sincerity and affection.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly both collapsed on the floor, near Joly's pallet, and rested their heads against the wall. Within minutes, they were asleep. Marius retreated to the front room, where, as the couch was drenched in blood, he lay down on the floor. He didn't sleep - his mind was still buzzing, coping with both the loss of Cosette, and now with the nightmarish situation in which he was now entangled. Enjolras sat on the windowsill, looking out over the city. He could hear the shouts of protesters, and the sounds of gunshots and cannon fire. He wished, more than ever, that he was back out on the streets, fighting. Fighting was easy. It was this situation in the flat that was so draining - and he was powerless to change it. Enjolras sighed, and rested his head against the glass, settling in for a long night that he knew would not end with the dawn.

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