Delirium
"Careful, my good man, I don't want to add head injury to his list of wounds!"
The fiacre driver just rolled his eyes as they negotiated Enjolras' large frame through the door of the townhouse.
Éponine had been sent into the house first and then into the parlor. She gingerly drew back the curtains, fingering the rich silk damask. The streetlamps lining the Quai d'Anjou lit up the room with a pale light. She turned and gazed at her surroundings in awed silence: Portraits in gilded frames, a small crystal chandelier, dentil molding; yes, even in the dimness she could make out that the interior decoration was very fine and in the best of taste. Much like Joly: impeccably dressed yet approachable. All the furniture was still swathed in holland sheets, waiting for the owners' return.
With old habits dying hard her clever eyes swept over everything of value that she could see, mentally cataloging each item and quietly calculating the value these things would have in the black markets of the Parisian underground.
Once she realized what she was doing she shook her head, as if hoping to dislodge the darkness.
Éponine heard the tramping of feet in the hall and assumed the driver had left. Joly appeared in the doorway.
"You are a right proper bourgeois, Monsieur."
Joly gave a small smile. "Yes, I suppose I am."
Éponine moved over to a painting hanging over what appeared to be a pianoforte by the shape of it. The portrait depicted two similar looking young men, one sitting on a stone bench and the other standing next to him with a hand on his shoulder. Behind the two men was a typical pastoral backdrop of fields and trees.
"That's me and my eldest brother," Joly said after noticing her inspection of it. "It was painted before I left for university."
"It's a good likeness."
Joly glanced at the portrait and winced. "You think so? I personally wish his brush had been a little less zealous with my freckles."
Éponine giggled, probably for the first time in a long time but it was cut short when a wave of dizziness swept over her. Her legs threatened to give way under her. Éponine stumbled to a covered wingback chair and sat down heavily. The carriage ride must have taken more out of her than she thought.
Joly rushed over to her and made a quick inspection of her vitals. Satisfied that she was not in any great danger the medical student gently took her by the elbow and led through the foyer and up the stairs.
The sight of the corridor brought to Éponine's mind the corridor of the Gorbeau house where she, her family and Marius had lived for a time. The precious run-ins she would have with Marius in that corridor as he ran off to class . . .
Please, God, let Marius be alive and safe . . .
"This will be your room." Joly opened a door at the end of the hall and Éponine stepped in.
Her room . . . Her room!
To a bourgeois girl the room was simple, but to Éponine it was luxurious. By the light of the candle in Joly's hand Éponine could see that the walls were papered in an elegant pattern of pink primroses. Ahead of her was a window with damask curtains, to her right was the bed; a canopied affair. On the wall to her right, beyond the bed, there was a fireplace. To the left of the window was a washstand, complete with basin, pitcher and towel. Under Éponine's feet was a rug patterned with primroses, like the wallpaper.
Éponine absently touched the paper flowers on the wall as she stepped into the room. She paused for a moment then suddenly backed out of the space as if something in it had frightened her.
"Perhaps, if you just have a little cot by the kitchen for me to sleep on . . . that would be better, monsieur."
"No," Joly said firmly and steered her back into the room.
"But, monsieur . . . I'll dirty it . . ."
Joly looked at her quizzically. "You've had a bath, you're wearing clean clothes. I don't see how you could possibly . . ."
"Never mind, monsieur. I will stay." Éponine really did not have the energy to explain herself, she was not even sure she could.
"Anyway," Joly continued, "I'll need an extra pair of eyes and ears for our patient, just in case he stirs. I put him in the room next to yours. If you need anything, just pull this." Joly moved over to the bed and touched the bell-pull that was hanging near the headboard.
"I sent a message home two days ago requesting the use of two of our servants to wait on me and two friends here . . . I wonder if my missive went astray . . . They should have been here before us . . ."
As if on cue the front door flew open and in breezed a stout man; his thinning hair pulled back in a black ribbon, his clothes also black and reminiscent of the century before.
"Se dépêcher, Joséphine! Quickly!"
"I'm hurryin' as fast as I can, Anatole, but you've left me with all the baskets!"
A willowy woman of middle age in a weathered cloak, work dress and straw bonnet slightly askew, stepped into the foyer. Baskets of various sizes hung about her arms like so many bracelets.
Anatole irritably took the baskets from her.
"Here, while I take these to the kitchen you start removing the dust covers."
Joséphine, gladly relieved of her burden set eagerly about her task.
"Anatole, Joséphine!" Joly called to them from the top of the stairs.
Joséphine gave out a startled screech and looked up. "Master Jean! Oh, dear, oh! We had hoped we had made it here before you! Oh, dear! Nothing's ready!"
Joly waved aside her fretting with good-humor. He motioned for Éponine to stay in her room then descended the stairs.
"It is alright. I'm just glad you made it at all."
"So are we," said Anatole coming up from the kitchens below.
"We sure had a bad time getting into Paris, what with the riots and all . . ."
"Indeed?" Joly ventured.
"Them rabble-rousers disturbin' the king's peace all the time . . ."
"Yes, thank you, Anatole. I'll let you see to the arrangement of things. You will act as butler and Joséphine, you will be housekeeper and maid. The length of my stay is indefinite. You do not need to air out all the rooms, just three upstairs: Alphonse's, Élise's, and mine, and two down here: the parlor and the dining room . . . and of course, the kitchen. The two rooms upstairs are being occupied by two dear friends of mine who were unfortunately caught in the crossfire of three days ago."
Anatole wondered to himself why Master Jean did not just take them to a hospital, but it was not his place to question.
"Very good, monsieur."
"And now," Joly said, stretching his arms and emitting a great yawn, "I believe I shall go to bed. Good night."
"Good night, Master Jean."
Joly slowly ascended the stairs, wishing—not for the first time that night—that Musichetta were with him.
Suddenly, a crash, like the sound of a chair being overturned, came from the direction of Enjolras' room.
Joly took the stairs two at a time. Joséphine and Anatole made to follow him but he motioned for them to stay back.
He found Enjolras' door open and Éponine standing in the frame. Enjolras was standing at the far end of the room. His arms were crossed. He looked on Éponine with an imperious eye and haughty stare. His golden locks plastered to the pale forehead bathed in sweat. His strong chin was shadowed with stubble. Even in his disarray, he was formidable and Éponine dared not approach him.
"Shoot me," he said, in a tone that would have been labeled as bravely defiant if he were perhaps facing down a group of soldiers, perhaps that was what he thought he was doing.
Joly slipped past Éponine and ran towards Enjolras. The former leader of the amis took no notice of him and continued to stare in Éponine's direction. Quick as a flash, Joly reached into his bag that had been near the bed and took out a bottle. He upended the bottle briefly over a handkerchief. Then he made his cautious way toward Enjolras. He barely waved the handkerchief under his friend's nose and the man collapsed into his arms.
Éponine watched as Joly dragged Enjolras back into bed.
"Delirium. Brought on by the fever," Joly said simply.
"Was he wounded very badly?" Éponine ventured.
"I removed eight bullets from his person and closed two saber slashes."
Éponine raised a hand to her lips in an effort to stifle the sharp gasp that escaped anyway. She looked down at that leader of ideals and men, Grégorie Enjolras, and the stirrings of pity finally reached her heart. She had been so wrapped up in her own concerns—meaning really her concerns for Marius—she had not thought of Enjolras, outside of him getting well enough to tell her of Marius. Now, as she looked down at that still face that had once been so full of life and passion for a future that only he could see, she began to hope for his wellbeing, for his own sake.
There was a basin by the bed already filled with water and a hand towel. Éponine squeezed the excess water from the towel and bathed Enjolras' face and forehead. Joly gave Éponine a tired smile and gently took the towel from her.
"You should go to sleep. I'll see to him."
Éponine, after the excitement was over, felt again the weariness caused by the long, eventful day and stumbled off to her own bed. The minute her head touched that ever so soft pillow, softer than any pillow she ever had under head in her life, she was asleep.