Disclaimer: Guess what? I'm still not Victor Hugo.
A/N Wow, two chapters in one day! Quick thanks to funky11 who has not only followed my story, but favourited it as well. THANK YOU. I'm an easily pleased person ;)
Chapter Three
An hour or so later, just as the delicate fingers of dawn were stretching themselves across the shutters and creeping onto the wall, Joly returned with a grey haired but sprightly looking man. He absentmindedly shook Enjolras' hand, his keen eyes studying the apartment in a way that made Enjolras feel vaguely defensive and more than a little uncomfortable. He was naturally a very private person, and so to have someone peering around the inner sanctum of his home felt very invasive.
"She's through here, sir," Joly gestured to the bedroom.
"Yes, yes, of course," the man said, moving purposefully out of the main living space, pausing only momentarily to glance at a still sleeping, but thankfully silent, Grantaire.
The girl was still unconscious and had not stirred again. The strange doctor took in all of the information that Joly nervously gave him without a word; instead gently running his fingers lightly over the girl's skull and peeling away the bandages to look at her other wounds.
"What's his name?" Enjolras asked, as the man had not offered it when they had met.
It was Comberferre who answered, "Dr Pierre Dupont. He can be a little odd sometimes, but he has an amazing attention to detail. He can tell what you do, where you grew up and where you live without even asking you. He testifies in court for rapes, robberies, murders, that kind of thing. He's incredible."
Enjolras frowned, "Why?"
"He reads wounds the same way he reads people," Joly whispered, sounding completely in awe of the unassuming man sitting by the bed. Dupont had finished his examination and was sat studying the girl intently, sitting so still Enjolras wasn't even sure he was breathing or blinking.
"He can help piece together how something happened by studying the wounds. He also somehow begins to build a rough sketch of the attacker," Joly paused, "I hoped he might be able to do it for our patient."
"You are a law student, yes?" The question made them all start. Dr Dupont was looking at Enjolras.
"That's correct, sir, yes," Enjolras answered, not sure where the conversation was going.
"You haven't passed the bar yet though, and what are you… 24? 25? You look younger though. But you haven't passed because you're not capable, oh no, not with this many books around. No, it's either because you're distracted, or your professors don't like you. I'm more inclined towards the latter, no offence intended as to you personality, of course. But why would they dislike you? Judging from the books on Robespierre and the Revolution, I think I spotted the Social Contract on the way in, coupled with the tricolour rosette you and your friends wear, I'm guessing aspiring political activist. You've probably started a few uncomfortable in class debates, maybe even a few mild riots. Correct?"
Enjolras was impressed, for everything Dupont had said was completely accurate. He acknowledged the man's skill with a respectful inclination of his head, but said no more about it, preferring to focus on the topic at hand, "Joly said you could decipher an attack from the wounds?"
"Also very focused." Dr Dupont chuckled, delighted at his successful observations, then became serious once more, "I can only give you a very rough idea of the incident, but I can say that this is a very brave and lucky woman lying here."
"Why do you say brave?" Joly asked.
Dr Dupont picked up the girl's hands and carefully removed the bandages. A little blood seeped out but the cuts were not too deep. "The attacker was right handed judging from the angle of these cuts and the stab wound in her shoulder was meant to hit her heart. The only reason it didn't was because she tried to punch his face."
Enjolras started in surprise and admiration, "She tried to punch an armed man? How can you tell?"
Dr Dupont picked up the girl's arm and closed the limp hand into a fist then asked Joly to do the same with the other hand. He then arranged the arms in a fighting stance, "The knife cut diagonally across the back of the right hand, between the two knuckles of the left hand, over left forearm then into her shoulder. In the dark alley, and with the amount of blood that appeared, her attacker will have thought he'd hit her heart or a main artery. The shoulder wound has some ragged edges saying that she continued to struggle. That's probably when he hit her head against the wall." He re-bandaged the girl's hands and arm and moved up to her head, "There are little fragments of brick in her hair and on the wound," he frowned, reached into his bag and pulled out a wicked-looking pair of scissors, "Joly, go and find some more hot water. We'll need to clean this up again afterwards." He glanced briefly at the two young doctors, "You two did a good preliminary job, well done."
Joly flushed in pleasure at the complement, and went to find Margo, returning a few minutes later with water and fresh cloths.
Enjolras watched as Dr Dupont and Joly tidied up the wound, aided by Combeferre. When they were finished, the water and cloths were stained red and from her forehead to just behind her ear on the left side of her head the hair had been cut short to allow access to the horrendous looking wound in her scalp.
Dr Dupont, however, was rather cheerful. "She must have a skull like iron," he remarked as he packed up, "I can't feel any serious cracks or fractures and the fact that she woke up, however briefly, is a good sign."
"Would she be better off at a hospital?" Enjolras asked.
"That is out of the question," the doctor said sternly, "Although she has a good chance of recovery, these wounds are incredibly serious. When she is awake and talking I will visit again. Until then," he now spoke solely to Joly, "keep everything clean and try to get liquids into her to keep her strength up. You're lucky with the shoulder wound, only silk threads from the chemise went in."
"Unlike other fibres, silk doesn't cause a wound to fester," Comberferre explained for Enjolras' benefit and also for Grantaire who had stumbled into the doorway, one hand shielding his eyes.
Enjolras' blue eyes narrowed for a moment in thought, but he did not verbalise his thoughts until Dr Dupont had left, "Comberferre, look at her dress."
His friend picked up the blood stained and filthy piece of clothing, "What about it?"
Enjolras began to pace the room, a habit of his, his boots stamping out a steady rhythm, "I don't know that much about women's clothing," he ignored the mischievous look that Grantaire gave him, continuing to speak before a crude comment was made, "but even I know that silk is an expensive material."
"What's that got to do with the dress?" Joly eyed the filthy garment with some distaste, "Which, I hasten to add, needs to be burnt before it passes on any diseases it may have picked up in that filthy alleyway."
As usual, his friends ignored his hypochondriac tendencies. Combeferre studied one of the cleaner patches of fabric. "I see what you mean," he muttered, almost to himself, "The fabric is good quality and, although a bit faded, the dress is very well made."
Grantaire collapsed into the chair that had previously held Dr Dupont, "Either I am more hung over than I originally thought, or I'm really missing the point of why 'Ferre has taken a sudden interest in dressmaking. Who the hell cares about her dress?" This short outburst was followed by a groan as Joly pulled open the flimsy curtains and flooded the room with bright autumn sunshine.
Enjolras let out a sigh of irritation at Grantaire's dim-wittedness, "Why was a women who could afford silk chemises and well made, warm dresses wandering about in the slums of Saint Michel?" he peered questioningly at each of them in turn, "Any suggestions?"
Grantaire, who was sprawled in the desk chair with his arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight offered, "She was meeting a lover?"
Enjolras shook his head, "She wasn't heading for a rendezvous. She was terrified; I heard it in her voice."
A knock sounded at the door stopping the debate. It seemed to jerk Joly into action as he rolled up his sleeves and made little shooing motions with his hands, "Everyone but Combeferre out, I need to change the dressings, and Enjolras, if you see Margo could ask her if she has a minute? I want to show her how to change the bandages if she is the only person here to care for the patient."
As Enjolras and Grantaire emerged into the main living space, they found Margo giggling like a school girl and flushed an interesting shade of red. The reason for this was that Courfeyrac, who was in horrifyingly cheerful mood for the time of day, had met her on the stairs on the way in. He was at his iridescent, charming best and had convinced her to let him straight into the apartment, rather than, as he said, 'Disturb my good friend, as he has probably spent most of the night in a fearful struggle against the injustices of society, the modern world, and the fact that a real human woman is asleep in his bed'.
After Margo had composed herself and had gone through to help Joly and Combeferre, Enjolras fixed Courfeyrac with a glare that would have been impressive if not for the dark bags under his eyes. Courfeyrac, being who he was, said as much, earning himself an even fiercer glare and a chuckle from Grantaire.
"You were flirting with my landlady," Enjolras eventually bit out.
"She is a fine looking woman," Courfeyrac answered sincerely, even holding his hat over his heart for effect, but mostly because it was new and he was hoping for a complement in his good taste. He really should have known better, for it was a well-known fact that Enjolras had no appreciation of the finer points of fashion, or indeed social interaction.
Enjolras let the matter go with a long suffering sigh and was instead about to ask what exactly Courfeyrac was doing here, when a bone chilling scream rang out from the bedroom. All three of them instantly bolted in that direction to be confronted with the sight of Combeferre trying to hold the struggling girl down by a firm and carefully placed grip on her shoulders. Joly seemed on the verge of panic, rummaging through his bag for something to calm her (and probably him), and Margo was murmuring gently in an attempt to calm the girl.
Eventually, the girl's struggles grew weaker as the effects of her injuries finally overrode the panic. She lay on the bed, a whimpering, shaking mess, the thin linen chemise supplied by Margo not doing much to disguise her heaving chest. The young men politely averted their eyes, while Margo smoothed the hair away from the girl's forehead and spoke words so quiet that none of the Amis could hear them. They seemed to work however, for her breathing calmed somewhat, and Combeferre was able to release his hold.
"I apologise, mademoiselle, I had no desire to alarm you." He spoke gently, and Enjolras was once again struck by the ease in which Combeferre conversed with his patients; as if he had bumped into her in the street and not just had her pinned by her arms to a bed as she did her level best to claw his eyes out.
The girl had somehow managed to pull herself up into a sitting position, gasping from the sudden pain that bloomed in her shoulder and arms. Enjolras saw that she flinched as Margo pulled the blankets up to her shoulders to give her a modicum of modesty, and her eyes, those green eyes that had haunted his sleep all night, were wide with fear. Joly seemed to have come to his senses and was gingerly finishing off replacing the dressing on her shoulder, Margo never stopping with her soothing words. At that moment, Enjolras was hugely grateful for his landlady. If only there were more people in the world like her, it would be a significantly better place. Joly finished his ministrations and straightened up, his back audibly clicking.
"That sounded painful," the voice was soft and slightly uncertain.
"Just several vertebrae realigning themselves into their natural order," Joly answered then realized that it was the girl that had spoken. All of the occupants of the room stared at her in surprise. She shifted uncomfortably under their gaze.
"Where…," she began, but her throat was so dry that her voice cracked and faded. Courfeyrac disappeared from beside Enjolras and reappeared a moment later with a beaker of water. He presented it to her with a gallant flourish, coaxing a smile so small it was barely discernible, but a smile nonetheless. Margo supported the weight of the glass as the girl drank, who was swallowing so quickly she seemed certain to choke. When all the water was gone she took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and tried to speak again.
"Where am I, and what happened to me?"
A/N This ended up being a really long chapter, but I couldn't find an appropriate way to end it. The next chapter will be introducing (sort of) our mysterious patient, so stay tuned.
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz