Chapter XXXVII
Enjolras was a very handsome young man. He possessed enough beauty, confidence, and boldness to be the prince of angels. He had a stern, serious, and grave face. His jaw was firmly set, distinctly outlined, and the shallow cleft of his chin, looked as if it had been carved out of ivory. He had high, distinct cheek bones, and above them, his brows seemed to be in a permanent scowl of anger, stiffly angled above his harshly blazing eyes. His smooth cheeks dipped slightly inward, further highlighting the perfect carve of his chin. His skin was fair, and it had a very healthy look about it, a glow that made him almost appear to be not of the kin of the mortal but the immortal. The angels, the cherubim, the gods depicted in the old mythology of the Greek. His hair also suggested a look of good health. His thick golden locks flowed in loose curls almost down the full length of his neck, and his hair shown radiant like rays of golden sunlight. His body too was as if it had already been glorified by the Creator. His skin was smooth, flawless. His muscles were not particularly large but strong. But his most striking, most mysterious, most beautiful feature was his eyes.
Dark blue in color and filled with boundless life, there seemed to be an extreme depth to them. Looking into his eyes was like looking into the depths of the ocean at night, when the water dark and misty. Beyond the surface hide endless mysteries and secrets, darkness and light, and powerful life. Deep, rolling, and untamable like the sea. Cold and hard like stone, but at the same time, full of excitement and life. There was a dark fire smoldering within them. A fire that was fueled of burning passion, strong bravery, unyielding will, young courage, and a desperate longing to taste freedom.
Many young women looked at this man, this jewel with loving, longing, or even lusting eyes. They longed for him. For his beauty, his youth, his spirit. But not one of them could ever have him. He did not trouble himself with women. A man cannot serve two masters. A man cannot love two fathers. He must chose one of whom to follow. Enjolras loved France. He longed for justice. He felt his heart burst with joy and pride whenever he imagined the possibility of one day living in a world where the people were free. So Enjolras served France alone.
While his physical body was handsome, beautiful, and strong, his soul was all of this and so much more. He was brave and courageous. Passionate and powerful. His spirit was unconquerable. He a will to fight for justice, a passion to die for freedom, and a heart that beat only for France. This man was the marble lover of liberty. The perfect icon for France. The perfect symbol for the revolution. The perfect leader for the people to follow.
Now, this man was no longer recognizable.
He was no longer handsome. Or beautiful. Or strong. He was ruined. Wasted and weak. His entire body was covered in ugly scars, black bruising, and gruesome wounds, bursting with infection and never ceasing to bleed. Likewise, scars, deep infected wounds, swelling, and bruising distorted his once handsome face. The gash that started beside his left eye and ran down his cheek, with he had obtained when Javert ran the blade of his knife across Enjolras's face, became terribly infected, and all of the flesh around it turned red and began to swell and stretch as if it had been filled with liquid. Aside form the wounds and infection, Enjolras was deep into starvation, down to the final days of it. His muscles had become so weak that he could hardly move them, and his body had become so thin that his bones could easily be seen through the thin layer of flesh that covered them, and his ribs were so prominent that that they were elevated above and stuck out of his skin. His cheeks had sunken deep into his skull, and dark shadows filled them like hallow pits upon his face. His cheekbones now stuck out of his face, sharp and rough. His skin, which had once shown with a healthy glow, was now dull and had a grey shadow upon it. This was the same shadow that fell over Luc before he died. Enjolras's hair, which had once been long and beautiful, was gone. Short bristly splinters of hair were all that was left to cover his skull. Bloody gashes could be seen upon his head, where he had been struck or where they had cut him while shaving off his hair. Aside from all of this, Enjolras looked and was deathly ill. His face was pale and colorless. Redness surrounded his eyes and darkness hung under them. Enjolras looked terrible, ugly, and sickly. And the fire that had always been in his eyes had finally died out. His eyes became cold, dark, vacant windows with no soul behind them. Just like all of the other prisoners whose souls had wasted away and died. Now the only thing that could be seen in Enjolras's eyes was the tears. Enjolras, who would never show any weakness, who would never let anyone see him cry, was constantly weeping. Tears always filled his eyes, ran down his face, and stained his cheeks. He could never stop grieving.
Even after he had put him through all of this torture, this suffering, this torment, Javert could still not break Enjolras. No physical pain, it seemed, could break this immortal soul. Javert hated to admit it, but he knew that Enjolras was strong. He knew that Enjolras was very strong. Mockeries, humiliation, pain, torture, sickness, starvation, despair. Javert tried all of these things but none of them could break Enjolras. But in the end, he was finally broken. At last, at the end of it all, it was not of evil that broke Enjolras. It was love. Love so beautiful yet so treacherous. Love that can save a man yet can also kill him. When Enjolras met Luc, love had saved Enjolras. But in losing Luc, love had also destroyed Enjolras. Now, at last, at the end of this trying road of life, at the final chapter of the story, Enjolras was broken.
When Luc died, everything that Enjolras had been died with the child. His strength, his will, his pride, his courage, it all left him at once. He cared nothing for anything anymore. His soul withered and his heart hardened. The life died for his spirit and the fired died from his eyes. All he wanted now was to die.
After Luc's death, Enjolras returned to that corner where he and Luc used to sit. He had not moved since. Now, instead of sitting, he lied on his back upon the stone floor, and stared up at the dark ceiling or closed his eyes as he cried. He did not do anything else. His throat became as dry as the desert sands that bake in the burning glare of the murderous sun, but he did not drink. He was starving, but when the guards came to bring bread to the prisoners, he did not even open his eyes. All he could do now was lie on the floor and wait to die.
The enemy army of bloodthirsty and murderous warriors, clad in dark armor and equipped with terrible weapons daggers, swords, axes, flaming arrows, and massive catapults, and each man with the sole intent to kill to murder, had long ago surrounded the unconquerable walls of a mighty castle and launched an attack upon it. But no matter how fiercely, how brutally, how relentlessly this army assaulted the castle, it could not breach these immortal walls. Flaming darts were able to scratch the sides of this stone, and massive boulders launched from catapults created creators within the wall. But even this could not defeat the strength of this unyielding castle. It seemed truly immortal. Until, one day, when the enemy army launched one final attack, one final bow, one final desperate attempt to overthrow this undefeatable force, and, all at once, the mighty walls of this castle came crashing down, crumpling to the earth, falling and dying. With a clamorous roar of victory, like the screaming of demons, the warriors in black armor charged into the now defenseless kingdom, thirsty to bring pain, destruction, and death. They devoured everything in their path, slaying, chopping, burning, and executing. The only task left was to murder the king, who was vanquishing in the darkest chamber of his broken castle.
This was the way of it with Enjolras.
Luc died and, at once, Enjolras was weaker than he had ever been, and as the days progressed his health continued to rapidly decline. His strength gone and his will to live gone, his heart hallow, and only darkness to fill his soul, Enjolras was vulnerable to anything and everything. Within only a matter of days he went form extraordinary and miraculously good heath once considering everything that he had gone through, to a shockingly and horrifyingly terrible condition. Giving up the fight for survival, no longer strong enough to endure, surrendering to Death, his body stopped fighting for life, as well. Stopped fighting to heal. Stopped fight to live. Stopped fending off Death.
His strength gone, countless illnesses, diseases, and infections, sprang upon him at once, fixed on destroying him. The pain in his body increased several times each day. The infection in his wounds became worse and grew out of control, spreading throughout his flesh like wildfire spreading in a dead, dried out forest. The germs and diseases that had been looming all around him for so long, but until now his body had been able to fend off, assaulted him, as well. In only a few days, Enjolras became fatally ill.
His entire body ached, throbbed, burned, and was stabbed with sudden pains like daggers. His head throbbed with pain and his mind swam in a world of dizziness and lightheadedness. Caused by the infection, or the diseases, or both of these things, a treacherous fever came upon him, and it did not go away. Sometimes it was not server, and it made Enjolras feel terrible, exhausted, and weak. But other times, it rose to lethal degrees that would eventually kill him. In these times, Enjolras's body became hot and burned as fire, but he felt as cold as ice. A chill like a bitter winter wind came over his flesh, and he shivered but was unable to get warm. He passed in and out of states of frightful delirium, in which he saw images of his friends and of Luc. Sometime, he thought they were real and his heart burst with joy, but only greater was the pain that hit it once he realized that all of that was only in his mind. He also saw images of his friends dying at the barricade, or Luc covered in blood and dying in his arms, and fantasies of Javert torturing him, his friends, and Luc. These images were just as if not more torturous than the pain plagued his body. But before it ever killed him, the fever began to drop, and sweat broke out all over his body making him feel even colder.
Each day, his health continued to decrease. The illnesses quickly developed into an extremely painful repertory infection. His lungs filled up with thick liquid mucus, they ached with pain, and they burned like fire. Just breathing was hard and painful. His chest clamped up, and his lungs were like the oysters trapped within their shells. Enjolras struggled to pull air into his aching lungs, and any air he did manage to draw in was shaky and thin, short cut off breaths intermingled with coughing and gagging that left him dizzy and lightheaded. Sometimes, he coughed so violently and the pain was so great that he thought his lungs would rupture and bust into blood inside his chest. They throbbed and ached as sharp pains stabbed his chest. He felt that there were knives being inserted into his lungs. He coughed up thick clots of mucus, which soon turned into clots of blood. A few moments longer and he felt that there were snakes constricting his lungs, his chest caved as if there was an iron fist closing down on his heart, and he could not breathe. Then he was left gasping for air, and it was several seconds before he was ever able to draw in that short breath that would keep him from suffocating.
On the second day, Bardon and Goy, hatred and wrath in their dark souls, and furious at Enjolras, as they blamed him for the failure of the escape, for the execution that they awaited, and Jarreau's death, swarmed upon Enjolras and attacked him, hitting him and beating him. Enjolras cried out as they struck him. He did not attempt to fight back. He did not attempt to defend himself. This shocked Bardon and Goy. They hit him a few more times and then left him alone. Even they could find no victory in defeated a man who was already dead.
By the end of the third day after Luc's death, Enjolras could barely stay awake for very short periods of times before he slipped into unconscious or delirium. He became so weak that he could not even lift his head up off the stone floor. He could not move at all. Even a slight turn of his head or the slight shifting of his muscles caused him server pain and sometimes made him cry out. Having lost all of his strength, his will, and his pride, Enjolras made no attempt to suppress the feeble moaning that was almost always spilling out through his parched and bleeding lips.
All of the prisoners who remained in this cell awaiting their execution, perceived that there was some weak animal dying in the corner of the cell, and they heard him constantly weeping, and moaning, and letting out soft cries of pain. This animal they all wished that they could kill for his own sake, to end his suffering, to put him out of his misery. For four days, Agee sat in a dark corner of the cell and watched Enjolras with those old, grey eyes, so full of depth and life, and yet also so empty. He felt a sigh in his heart as he saw him and thought in his mind, There is one who used to be strong. There is one who could have led the people to victory and France to freedom. But now he had fallen, just like the rest of us. France will never be free. On the fifth day, Agee's name was called along with Bardon and Goy. They were all three taken away and executed.
On this same day, two guards arrived at the gate of the cell and called Enjolras's number. He heard them calling him, but he made no attempt to react. Eventually, the enraged guards entered the cell and found Enjolras were he was lying in the corner. First, they yelled at him and struck him with their clubs, and he cried out. Then, they ordered him to get up and follow them, but he did not. They hit hi some more, but they soon realized that not only was he unwilling to get up but incapable of it, as well. So they dragged him out of the cell and down the dark hallways.
When they arrived at the room, Enjolras was unconscious. Thevenin had come back and was waiting for Enjolras in this room to examine him and give him more medication. When he saw these two guards drag Enjolras's limp body into the room, he was stunned and horrified to see what had become of this once strong man in only a week's time.
"Put him on the table," Thevenin told the guards, his voice flat and emotionless. They obeyed and threw Enjolras's body up onto the wooden table, laying him on his back. Then, they nodded to the doctor and departed.
As soon as they had left, Thevenin no longer tried to hide his concern for this prisoner. He quickly went to Enjolras, and stared down at his unconscious body. He looked as if he was already at the verge of death, barely able to hang on to life, just about to slip away from this world and into the darkness. His body was pale and had a sickly grey shadow upon it, as if the life was already draining from his blood. His face looked frightfully terrible: disfigured by deep infected gashes, swelling, and bruising; his face, the color of death, in vivid contrast to the blood and wounds, and to the dark circles that hung under his eyes. As he lied there upon the table, his chest rose and fell short and rapidly as he struggled to breathe. A low rattling sound could be heard within his chest as air moved through his lungs, and his breaths were frequently interrupted by shallow coughing or gasping. He could barely breathe. Thevenin gently touched Enjolras's forehead. His skin burned hot, as if he had been out in the sun for several hours, when in reality he had only been in his cold, dark cell. At once, Thevenin knew that a lethal fever upon Enjolras. If hen did not recover soon, Thevenin knew that it would kill him.
"Enjolras!" Thevenin said quietly but urgently, but Enjolras did not stir. "Enjolras wake up!" he said again. Careful to avoid touching any server wounds, Thevenin put a hand on Enjolras's left shoulder and gently shook him until he let out weak moan, and his eyes opened. Thevenin was relieved to see him open his eyes but even more hopeless when he saw the emptiness within them. "Enjolras, it is me, Thevenin. The doctor," he said gently. "I am here to help you."
Enjolras stared at him blankly, as if he did not recognize who he was, or understand what he was saying. Then, without saying a word, he closed his eyes again.
"Enjolras," Thevenin said softly. "I know you are in pain, but I am going to have to ask you to keep your eyes open. I need you to stay awake as long as you can."
Enjolras did not respond. He did not open his eyes.
"Enjolras, do as I say," Thevenin ordered, speaking a little louder and more commanding this time. "I am trying to help you!"
Enjolras hesitated for a long moment, not responding, not obeying. Then, at last, he opened his eyes and looked into Thevenin's. Next, he opened his parched lips and uttered a few words that came out thin, dry, and weak, like the whisper of the barely existent breeze in a burning desert. Thevenin did not recognize this voice at all. Last time Thevenin had spoken to him, Enjolras was so strong, so brave, so admirable. But now, it was as a completely different person. As if a different soul had come to live inside of this body. A soul that was weak and hopeless. "I do not want your help. Leave me alone."
Thevenin stared at Enjolras, shocked to hear him speak these words. For a moment, he did not know what to say. At last, he spoke softly to him, "You do not want help? Why not? You cannot give up Enjolras. You are strong. You can make it through this."
"I do not want your help," Enjolras mumbled again. "Leave me alone." With much effort, he turned his face away from Thevenin and closed his eyes.
Thevenin stared at Enjolras, hardly believing that this was the same man who he had seen the week before. What in the Name of God had happened to him? What possibly could happen to a man to make him go from someone so strong to someone so weak in only a week's time? Was this all due to his illness and injury? Thevenin did not think so. The last time he had seen Enjolras he was already in pain too terrible to endure. Yet Enjolras endured it. Not only did he endure it, but he did it was strength and with courage. Thevenin, the other doctor, the guards, the other prisoners, Javert were amazed at how well Enjolras was even after everything that he had been through. Many of those times when he should have died, he remained strong and proud. He kept his head held high and he would not degrade himself to a lower level; he would not cry out in pain no matter how agonizing it was; and even while his body crumpled, his soul could not be touched, his spirit remained strong and passionate, his heart remained fixed in one place, beating for the same purpose as it always has: for France, for freedom, for justice, for his friends, and for Luc. But now, he was an entirely different man. He did not care for anything or anyone. All he wanted was to die. Was it only the pain that had suddenly degraded him to this level? Thevenin thought not. Something had happened. Somehow this prison had finally defeated his youthful and passionate soul.
Thevenin let out a slow sigh. "Enjolras…" he said softly, his voice compassionate and kind. "I am sorry."
He meant it. He was sorry that Enjolras had to suffer like this. He had heard that Enjolras was a criminal and the most dangerous of sorts. That not only was he a revolutionary, but that he led the rebellion himself. That he was a traitor, a thief, and a murder. That he deserved all of these things that were happening to him. That this was the only way. That this was justice.
When they told him these things, Thevenin believed them. If this was justice, then who could question it? He knew that this was right and he did not question it. But now, he was not so sure. Before, he had looked at a criminal and seen him as no more than a disgrace to mankind, a ruthless animal, a disgusting worm. Now, he did not think so. Now, he knew that he had been wrong. Whether if it was all of them or even if it was only a few of them, he had now seen that these criminals were not just animals and heartless beasts, as he had thought them, but that they were men, human beings like everybody else, that they had minds, hearts, and souls. That they were sinners, no doubt. But did that set them apart from other men or did that simply make them a mortal man? The man who claims to be sinless is a liar and is still a slave to the sin of which he has not been set free. Woe to this man! For he will see the wrath of God.
Thevenin knew that these prisoners were, in fact, men, and he was no longer certain if he knew what justice was. The law declared that this was justice, what he saw lying on this table before him. This man beaten, wounded, tortured, starving, sick, and dying before him. This was what they called justice. There was a time when Thevenin would not have questioned this, but now he could not see how this could be just. Even if Enjolras was guilty of the things that they accused him of, even if he was a revolutionary, a traitor, and a murder, did he deserve this? Did any man deserve this? Thevenin did not think so. This was not justice, or else he no longer knew what justice was.
"I am sorry you have to suffer like this," he said quietly. "You do not deserve it."
Enjolras did not answer. He heard Thevenin's words, and they would have touched his heart. But his heart was too cold, too hard, too lifeless to feel anything anymore. So, he heard these words with his ears, but not with his heart. They made no difference to him.
"Enjolras…" he heard Thevenin say, but still he did not respond. "Enjolras, will you not even look at me? Listen to me. Enjolras! In the name of God, Enjolras! What has become of you?! You were so strong last time I saw you. What has become of that man?"
That man is dead, Enjolras thought to himself, but he did not say this aloud. He did not answer at all. He had spoken to Thevenin once, and that was enough. He did not wish to speak to him now, or ever again. So, he did not answer. He did not lift his head off the table. He did not open his eyes.
Thevenin stared at Enjolras a moment longer, utterly shocked to see him like this. What more could they have possibly done to him to turn him like this? He did not know. And it was obvious that Enjolras was not going to tell him. He shook his head and let out a deep sigh, giving up. As a doctor, he could sometimes save the dying man, but he could not bring the dead man back to life.
"Very well, Enjolras," he said flatly, his voice now sounding more curt and official. A doctor speaking to his patient; no longer a friend speaking to his friend. "I am sorry, but I have no choice but to examine you. That is my job. I need you to cooperate." Enjolras still did not move. "Enjolras… Enjolras, are you even listening to me?"
Thevenin quickly went around to the other side of the table so he could see Enjolras's face. He stared down at him shocked by what he saw. Enjolras's eyes were still closed, his cheek still resting against the surface of the table, but now tears were running down his cheeks. "Enjolras?! What on earth is the matter with you?! Tell me! I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is wrong with you!"
Did I not tell you that I do not want your help?! Enjolras thought furiously, as more tears escaped through his eyes and rolled down his face. But he would not speak again. He had already spoken his last words to Thevenin.
Thevenin made one last attempt to talk to Enjolras, but he would not budge. So, giving up on learning anything for Enjolras, Thevenin proceeded to do his work, mostly in silence, only speaking short, curt phrases when he had to give Enjolras a command. Although Thevenin tried as hard as he could to be gentle and not to hurt Enjolras as he carefully removed his shirt, Enjolras moaned and winced the entire time, his voice emitting low and weak from deep within his throat, and his face contracting in pain. Thevenin stopped suddenly, hardly able to bear this. He drew a knife and used it to cut open the front of Enjolras's shirt, as to spare him from any more pain.
Thevenin knew that Enjolras's condition had greatly degraded since last he saw him, but what he found beneath the clothing was far more dreadful than he would have ever imagined. Not only had illness and diseases take over him, but the infection had gotten out of control, spreading all throughout the wounds that covered Enjolras's body, conquering him and consuming him. The bullet wounds on his chest and back, the most deadly as it was, had become even worse. The flesh around them was swollen and inflamed, protruding with black and red liquid-filled bruises, and elevated as if the infection growing within his flesh had become too great and was about to burst out through his skin. The wounds themselves had been stitched shut, but blood and dark colored pus constantly oozed out for the incisions. It was clear to the doctor that Enjolras would need urgent and critical treatment if he was going to survive. But even that would not be enough. Not even the greatest doctor can revive a man once he had lost the will to live.
Thevenin did everything that he could for Enjolras, which was not entirely much. First, he attempted to conquer the fever, but could not. He spent much time trying to coax Enjolras to drink cold water, but his throat was so inflamed and swollen that he could barely swallow. Thevenin soaked several clothes in cold water and laid them upon Enjolras's body, his forehead, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. This helped a little, but it was not enough to get the fever to leave him. Then, in what to Enjolras amounted only to more merciless torture that he could not escape, Thevenin cleaned his wounds with cold water and then with alcohol that burned as if there was afire inside of him. Then, by pressing on his flesh with his hands and creating small incisions around the infected area, Thevenin was able to drain most of the pus out from Enjolras's wounds. He did this in hopes that with the pus gone, the infection would decrease, and the wounds would have a chance to heal, but to Enjolras this was exceedingly painful, just more excruciating torture, just another man trying to cause him as much possible pain and suffering before he finally died. At last, Thevenin rubbed medicine onto his wounds, and that was all he could do.
The entire time while Thevenin worked on him, Enjolras kept his eyes closed tightly, and his mind swam deep within an ocean of agony, rolling upon a merciless and restless tide, moving in and out with waves of pain. He moaned, and whimpered, and cried out as pain stabbed him again and again. Thevenin then gave him medicine to drink, but Enjolras could hardly swallow it, and most of what he attempted to choke down his throat he coughed back up and did not consume.
After struggling to drink for several minutes, Enjolras was drawn into a server coughing fit that choked him, gagged him, and cut off his lungs so he could not breathe. His chest quaked with pain, and Enjolras felt as if there was a serpent inside of him, withering around and contracting his lungs and his heart. His lungs rattled and wheezed as the thick mucus shifted around within them. He coughed up thick clots of dark colored sputa that was also filled with blood.
When Thevenin saw this, he forced Enjolras to sit up on the table, put an arm around Enjolras's shoulders, and held his body up, because Enjolras was too weak to sit on his own. Enjolras clutched at his chest, as he sat there coughing and in pain. Sitting up made it just slightly easier for him to breathe, and he was able to cough more mucus out of his lungs. But the pain was terrible. When it finally ended, Enjolras could was weak, out of breath, lightheaded, and on the verge of passing out, his entire body trembled, and cold sweat had broken out upon his face and neck. He sat on the table, Thevenin holding him up, and he panted for a long time, struggling to breathe, his head whirling, and his vision blurring. He was vaguely aware that Thevenin speaking gentle words to him, trying to comfort him and instructing him how to breathe. But Enjolras was not listening. He closed his eyes and let out a feeble moan, and Thevenin let him lie down again. A few moments later, Enjolras slipped into unconsciousness, and he did not open his eyes again.
When Enjolras was unconscious, Thevenin looked sadly upon him, lost in the knowing that he could not save this man. Enjolras was in terrible physical condition. For what he had seen already, Thevenin could conclude that on top of whatever other diseases he had, pneumonia had developed in Enjolras's lungs. This disease was a quick killer. Sometimes it took weeks, sometimes it took days, but if left without vigorous medical care it would not take long to kill him. This was care that Enjolras would not be able to receive in this prison. It was only a matter of time before Enjolras was dead.