Les Hommes de la Miséricorde
(Men of Mercy)
A/N: Hello readers! Wow, thank you AGAIN for all of your wonderful feedback and loyalty to this story, it's just wonderful! I do hope you enjoy this chapter!
Chapter 12: Under Cover of Night
The house is whirlwind of activity, and yet all Enjolras can do is wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
"Is there anything I can do?" Enjolras asks Feuilly, who has clearly been given an order by Combeferre, his mother, and Monsieur Fauchelevent to guard him.
"I'm afraid not my friend," Feuilly answers with a good-natured smile. "It's a risk moving you as is, but we don't have a choice now, not with Inspector Javert on the case."
"Do you think Javert knows this is where Fauchelevent lives?" Enjolras asks.
"Honestly I'm not sure," Feuilly replies. "But I do wonder if that's the case, what with this sudden need to move houses. As much as I like M. Fauchelevent, I'll feel better when we know the truth about all of this. I'll rest easier. Or as easy as any of us can rest right now."
Enjolras nods, thoughts swirling around in his mind. He's used to leading, to acting, to doing, and being physically incapable frustrates him. He doesn't want to worry his friends any further, however, and so remains silent. The trouble is, Feuilly is incredibly perceptive.
"I know you dislike being idle while others act," Feuilly tells him. "But for now you're going to have to let the rest of us take the lead. That, or Combeferre's heart is going to stop beating from his worrying."
"You're right," Enjolras agrees. "And I am trying. And it's not that I don't trust you, I trust all of you, I just…"
"Enjolras," Feuilly says, resting a hand on his arm and stopping his most uncharacteristic ramble of words. "We know you trust us. We know you love us and we know you want to protect us. But you're going to have to let us protect you in this instance, alright?"
"Yes," Enjolras says, offering Feuilly a melancholy smile. "I admit, I rather don't feel like myself."
"None of us do," Feuilly says, shaking his head. "I don't know how we could. We will find ourselves again, but not just yet."
And we might find ourselves changed, are the words he doesn't speak aloud. Changed in the wake of these losses.
There are ghosts in Feuilly's eyes, ghosts of his long-deceased parents, parents who died when he was just a bit younger than Gavroche, leaving him with no family, no money, and no home. The Amis have been his family since he came into their fold, and Enjolras knows how much that means to his friend. Anger burns in the pit of Enjolras' stomach at the thought of the injustices Feuilly has suffered; Feuilly, who taught himself so much and yet never had the chance to go to university when so many luckier youths wasted their education away without appreciating it, without acknowledging its merit.
"Your wisdom never ceases to astound me," Enjolras says sincerely. "Truly."
"The world has taught me a few things," Feuilly says humbly.
Footsteps sound in the hallway and Combeferre appears, looking slightly frazzled but still in control, Courfeyrac and Grantaire behind him.
"Alright," Combeferre says. "M. Gillenormand loaned us two of his carriages, so here is the plan M. Fauchelevent set forth. We will stagger the carriages; the first one will contain M. Fauchelevent, Marius, myself, and you, Enjolras…"
"Me!" Enjolras exclaims. "No, I should not go first…"
"Enjolras," Combeferre says, and there is no room for argument in his tone. "It is your face on those posters, and so therefore you need to leave first. That, and we need to move you as quickly as possible to avoid aggravating your injuries. I will phrase it like this if it makes you more amenable; if Inspector Javert comes while you are still here, it will likely only mean bad things for all of us."
Combeferre raises one eyebrow, and after meeting his eye for a moment and sensing the barely visible glint of desperation, Enjolras concedes.
"Alright," he replies. "Alright."
"The second carriage will contain Cosette, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Gavroche, and the third Adrienne, Toussaint, and Madame Enjolras. We'll stagger the arrivals to the Rue Plumet about ten minutes apart."
"It's less suspicious that way, I imagine," Enjolras says.
"Exactly," Combeferre says. "But now there's the matter of getting you downstairs with your leg in this state. M. Fauchelevent has Marius settled in the carriage, but he also has use of both legs."
"I think I can manage with some assistance," Enjolras says, even if the idea of putting weight on his leg makes him blanch inwardly.
"We'll try it," Combeferre says, clearly skeptical. "Courfeyrac, Grantaire, you're the strongest amongst us, I think. Courfeyrac, you put your arm around Enjolras' waist on the side with his bad shoulder, and Grantaire, you put his good arm around your shoulder and help him keep the weight off his injured leg."
They oblige, and although it pains him to even move, this strategy works.
Until they reach the stairs.
There's no possibility the stairs are wide enough for all three of them to make their way down three astride.
"Well," Grantaire says matter of factly. "Looks like I'll have to carry you again."
"I'm sure I can…"
"Put weight on that leg," Grantaire says, challenging him.
Enjolras does, and it sends stabbing pains up the entire length of his leg.
"I thought not," Grantaire says, and Enjolras is once again surprised at his determination, determination that seems to have been brought forth by this tragedy they've found themselves in, by the near loss of Enjolras himself.
He lifts Enjolras carefully into his arms, and it's done with minimal pain.
"Not as heavy as the marble statues you so often compare me to?" Enjolras asks wryly.
"Not quite," Grantaire quips, chuckling.
Soon they are down the stairs and out the door, M. Fauchelevent coming to greet them at the first carriage.
"Alright," he says, and there's an air of forced calm about him. "Combeferre, you climb in first and then you can help us bring Enjolras in."
Combeferre does as asked, and Enjolras eyes Marius lying across the second seat, anxiety glistening in his eyes. With Courfeyrac's help, Grantaire and Combeferre soon have Enjolras laid out in a similar fashion, his head resting on Combeferre's legs for lack of room.
"Please be careful," Enjolras says to his remaining friends.
"I will take care of them Rene," Madame Enjolras says from the right. "And you do as Combeferre and M. Fauchelevent ask of you. We will see you soon."
And with that the carriage door closes and they're on the way.
"It's only about a fifteen minute ride from here," M. Fauchelevent says, eyes gazing with purpose out the window from his place next to Marius. "But there might be a few bumps."
"Are you alright Marius?" Enjolras asks, noticing how pale Marius appears.
"I've been better," Marius says, wincing and sending Enjolras a tight smile. "But I'll be alright. You?"
Enjolras reply is cut off by the first of the mentioned bumps, and of reflex he reaches for Combeferre's hand, which is open and ready.
"Hold tight," Combeferre says softly. "Just hold tight."
"I don't want to squeeze the feeling out of your hand," Enjolras says. "If there's more bumps like that, I might."
"It'll come back," Combeferre assures him. "It'll come back."
A rush of affection for Combeferre floods his heart, and he bites his lips against another jolt of pain.
"You have gone beyond your duty once again monsieur," Enjolras says to M. Fauchelevent when the ride smooths out. "Thank you."
"Helping you boys is my duty now," Fauchelevent answers. "And my pleasure. Quiet now, you need to conserve your energy."
Enjolras falls silent, thoughts darting back to his friends, fear shooting through his heart at the thought of something happening to them; he knows every last one of them is exceedingly capable in the face of danger, they've shown that, but still he wants to protect them, to shield them, and yet knows he cannot.
But he will do everything in his power.
And if Javert finds them, if handing himself over means protecting his friends so that they may live their lives freely, so that they can continue fighting for the cause that means so much to all of them…
However, he knows doing so will hurt them, knows that they will attempt to share his fate, and he doesn't want to cause them any further pain…
But if doing so means saving them…
His own words echo back at him, joined with Combeferre's.
As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself.
We will share thy fate!
He remembers sending people away from the barricade, remembers the surprised faces of all present, their resolve to stay.
Let us not waste lives. Let all women and fathers of children, go from here…
"Enjolras?" Combeferre asks, as if sensing his inner turmoil.
"It's nothing," Enjolras says, evading the question, but squeezes his friend's hand; it's a gesture that lets Combeferre know they will speak later.
They arrive in just under fifteen minutes to a quaint but spacious house set back from a small grove of ivy covered trees and flowers. Much to Combeferre and M. Fauchelevent's chagrin, both Enjolras and Marius insist on staying put in the parlor until the others arrive. Enjolras' entire body throbs with pain and Marius is nearly asleep from exhaustion, but they sit silently with Combeferre moving back and forth between their couches as M. Fauchelevent readies the house and airs out the rooms.
Almost exactly ten minutes later the second group arrives and nearly the moment they cross the threshold Cosette's exasperated voice rings through the room.
"I knew I would find the two of you here!" she exclaims.
Marius opens his eyes fully at hearing her voice, looking sheepish, and if it weren't such a tense situation, Enjolras would've been amused at his friend's expense.
Courfeyrac and Gavroche, on the other hand, can't help but laugh quietly at Cosette's following diatribe and the expression on Marius' face.
"I explicitly told you to head straight upstairs and rest, Marius," she tells him, brows furrowed. Suddenly, Enjolras finds she's rounded on him. "And your mother told me you'd be sitting here Enjolras, you'd best let the others help you to bed before she finds you. And Combeferre, I expected you'd have forced them upstairs."
"I tried mademoiselle," he tells her, raising his hands in defeat. "Enjolras is stubborn certainly, but when you combine that with Marius' own brand of persistence I found myself a bit powerless to refuse them. They were worried."
Monsieur Fauchelevent has prepared the downstairs bedroom so that Enjolras won't have to brave the stairs again with his leg. Before Enjolras can even open his mouth to protest, Fauchelevent picks him gingerly up and carries him to said bedroom as if the weight his nothing, laying him down gently while Courfeyrac and Feuilly help Marius up the stairs, Cosette's concerned words and reassurances following them.
"Thank you monsieur," Enjolras says, settling against the pillows, hearing the wheels of the third carriage crunching on the gravel drive and breathing freely again.
They all made it safely and hopefully without being followed.
"I suspect soon I'll have forgotten how to walk, with treatment like this," Enjolras continues dryly, a hint of a joke in his tone.
Fauchelvent smiles.
"Your legs might have to adjust, but I'm sure Combeferre knows exactly how to go about that," he says, lifting the covers and placing them over Enjolras.
"He usually does," Enjolras answers, watching as Combeferre shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips.
"I'm going to see to your mother, Toussaint, and Adrienne, and then to make sure Cosette has worried Marius into submission, but let me know should you need anything," Fauchelevent says. "And get some rest."
Enjolras nods, eyes following him as he exits.
"I fear we need to change those bandages before I can let you sleep," Combeferre says. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
Enjolras is alone for only a moment before Grantaire enters, doing a poor job of masking his concern.
"Are you alright Enjolras?" he asks, hesitating in the doorway.
"I'm in pain, but I'm alright," Enjolras answers, gesturing him forward. "Sit for a moment?"
Grantaire does as requested, but Enjolras can tell he's still worried.
"I'm alright, Grantaire," he says again, softening his tone. "I promise. Doctor Figueron says I'll be fine if we're careful. The infection is nearly gone; it's just a matter of a slow recovery from these wounds."
Grantaire narrows his eyes slightly, studying him.
"Courfeyrac talked to you, didn't he?"
"He said you were very worried and wanted to help," Enjolras admits. "And I could tell as much."
"Did he tell you what happened the night we thought you might die?" Grantaire asks, but there's no anger there, only curiosity.
"A bit," Enjolras says. "He said you were upset."
"He didn't…" Grantaire pauses. "Did he tell you about my brother?"
Shock swoops through Enjolras' person.
"Your…you have a brother?" he questions. "You never…"
"Told anyone?" Grantaire asks, a familiar bitterness wrapping around his words. "No. I don't even know why, really. But he…he died while he was out giving alms to the poor, to the local gamin, and he was mugged by a street gang. There was nothing we could do. He was the oldest, and it ripped my parents apart. He was set to join the clergy."
"Grantaire," Enjolras says, once again lost for words as the pieces of the mystery that makes up Grantaire start putting themselves together, though it still isn't complete. "I'm so sorry."
"I was afraid we were going to lose you," Grantaire says, averting his eyes. "And so I told Courfeyrac about my brother, I told him that I was obviously terrible at coping with losing people I care about. God, the first thing I did when I heard you might die was start drinking, I couldn't even complete one simple task when you entrusted it to me…"
"That might be true," Enjolras says, cutting him off. "But I've also seen you these past few days; you shielded Gavroche with your own body at the barricade, tried shielding me from the army general, you carried me all the way through the sewers, you kept me from running out of the house when I was overcome with fever, you have been there if I needed anything while I've been ill. My point is that you are clearly capable, Grantaire, of being more than you think you are."
"I thought you said I was incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying?" Grantaire says, smirking.
"I was frustrated with you when I said those things," Enjolras says. "And I like now to think I was wrong."
"You were wrong?" Grantaire says, amused. "I never thought…"
"Grantaire."
"I apologize," Grantaire says, sincere again. "But you weren't wrong, Enjolras, and you had every right to be frustrated with me then, I…"
"Note that I did not say you were incapable of love," Enjolras interrupts. "And that is a powerful thing. And I know that you love all of us, I have always known that. And that is why a part of me always believed you could be more than you appear."
"Do you ever stop believing?" Grantaire questions, a mixture of reverence and bewilderment in his voice.
"No," Enjolras answers simply.
Silence falls between them for a moment before Enjolras speaks up again.
"I hope you know that we all care about you, that I care about you," he says, warmth coating his words. "Infuriating as you are sometimes."
"You're…" Grantaire begins.
"An ingrate?" Enjolras finishes, quirking one eyebrow. "Yes, I believe you've told me that before. But we may make a believer out of you yet, Grantaire."
"I do believe in you," Grantaire says in a barely-there whisper, and the words strike Enjolras even more forcefully than they did the first time he heard Grantaire speak them.
"I know," Enjolras replies, handling the moment as carefully as he would a newborn child, sensing the change in Grantaire, a change of which he doesn't want to harm the growth. He wants to tell Grantaire that to believe only in a fallible, human, man who is capable of error is a treacherous thing, but decides he will save that for later. He grasps Grantaire's arm for a moment, letting him know his words are genuine, and Grantaire returns the gesture.
Just a few moments later, Combeferre returns with the bandages and Grantaire leaves to speak with Adrienne.
"Courfeyrac told you what happened with Grantaire the other night?" Combeferre asks, closing the door so he might change the bandages without interruption. "I was worried, but Courfeyrac handled it well, as I expected."
"He spoke to me just before we got the news we were to move," Enjolras answers, grimacing as the wrapping comes off his leg. "And asked me to reassure Grantaire. I hope I did so."
"I'm sure you did," Combeferre answers. "Aside from the one instance of drinking, he's been a bit different since the barricade. I think the loss of our friends," he stops his movement for a moment, closing his eyes. "I think instead of making him increasingly cynical, it made him want to fight to make sure the rest of us are safe, you especially. I like to hope it's the start of a change in him. Like you, I've always thought him capable of more, if he would just cease getting in his own way. Cynicism doesn't wear well on anyone and our friend is knee deep in it."
"I like to think there's been some progress, I hope there has been," Enjolras says, feeling the exhaustion creep into his bones. "But I worry Combeferre, for all of us, I don't want any of us to lose of our belief and I don't want Grantaire's lack of it increasing. Fighting for that belief, for our cause, it's at the core of my soul."
"I know," Combeferre says, taking a moment to smile at Enjolras before moving to change his shoulder bandage. "And we won't lose that belief. I certainly know you won't; it's too large a part of who you are, it's too large a part of all of us, too much a part of the friends we've lost. But in grief, sometimes, all seems distorted."
"Yes," Enjolras agrees. "Yes, you're right."
"We will talk more once you've slept," Combeferre says. "You're due for another dose of Laudanum. Overdue."
And so Enjolras begrudgingly accepts the foul medication, and only minutes later, sleep captures him and carries him away on its waves.
Javert goes alone to the address Valjean gave him, the address that's burned into his brain.
One, because he's not certain he's right.
Two, because he's still not certain what he's going to do if he is.
His heart beats wildly in his chest as he approaches number seven; he'd never wanted to see Valjean again, never wanted to think of him again, had only wanted to end his life in the murky depths of the Seine.
But no.
No, Valjean's daughter saved him, and attempting to throw yourself into the river a second time isn't so easy once the initial impulse has left you.
He'd hoped his superiors wouldn't assign him to this case, and the pressure raining down on him has only increased now that Inspector Ancel most surprisingly located the whereabouts of the leader of another of the barricades, a leader they'd thought dead.
But they did assign him, and now the only way out is death or resignation.
Currently, death seems the better option.
He moves closer, noting that no lights are on in the house and yet it's just after sundown and too early for all of them to have retired.
If the rebels are there in the first place, he tells himself.
Oh, they're there, a second voice answers. You know they are. 24601 can't help himself with saving people.
The man of mercy comes again, and talks of justice…
Before once again starting the internal battle with himself, he knocks.
"Police," he says firmly. "Open the door."
He snorts. As if Valjean would simply waltz over and open the door for an officer of the law and invite him in for coffee.
Although knowing Valjean, he just might.
There's resolutely no answer, and in light of the insurrection, the king has suspended the need for warrants to search suspected premises of insurgent leaders. And although he hates himself for having the skill, Javert makes quick work of the lock, the door creaking loudly as it swings open.
He prays that he'll find no evidence, that Valjean and his daughter have simply vacated the home for other reasons, have gone out of town, that they have nothing whatsoever to do with the missing rebels, with Enjolras.
But he was carrying the Pontmercy boy…
But still he searches, driven by his duty even as his head pounds agonizingly with conflict. He searches the entrance hall, the kitchen, the alcoves, but it's not until he's about to head to the second floor that he notices it, draped almost absentmindedly on one of the chairs in the front room.
A blood-stained red jacket.
Enjolras' jacket.
A/N: I realize this is a bit of cliffhanger, and therefore I hope you don't hate me. But just remember to trust me, okay? I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and do let me know what you thought!