A decisive persecution lawyer can, ibso facto,...

Enjolras's pen stopped half way across the page and he raised his left hand to support his head, which felt as though it was getting heavier by the minute. His headache was now even worse than it had been at lunchtime, his eyes felt like they were too big for their sockets, and he was beginning to perspire. He let his eyelids snap shut for the briefest of moments, hoping that the brief interlude with the absence of light might ease the pounding sensation behind his eyes. No such luck.

Come on, Julien! Concentrate! he told himself angrily. For Enjolras, feeling poorly was a novel experience indeed for, like several of the other Amis, he had had the benefit of a very wealthy upbringing and had consequently grown up strong and healthy, free from many of the childhood afflictions that plagued those of lesser fortune. Now, however, he simply felt awful! He was inexplicably tired and groggy, and his head was throbbing like a drumbeat; constant, loud and strong. If it did not cease, it was slowly going to drive him...

"Enjolras!"

"What?" he snapped himself out of his thoughts to see Courfeyrac, who was sitting next to him, gazing at him with raised eyebrows.

"You've been staring at the desk for about ten minutes," his friend whispered. "And you haven't taken down the quotes from that German lawyer he was talking about. It's not like you to be daydreaming, that's my forte! That's why I need to copy you all the time, remember? You're the studious one and I'm…"

"Making me miss even more of the lecture!" said Enjolras firmly, as he began to furiously scribble down what Professor Artoire was saying, running his free hand over his clammy face. He knew he would have to pay close attention from that point on, or else Courfeyrac would be the next one demanding to know what was bothering him! At any rate, Enjolras failed to see what Combeferre had been so worried about. Prouvaire had been right – he just needed a little sleep!

Courfeyrac grinned to himself as he turned his attention back to his own page of notes. Enjolras was could be so boringly well-behaved! Honestly, the boy wasn't even allowing himself the rare luxury of not paying attention. He wondered if he should flip a pen at the blond while his head was bent, and test his temper. However, when Enjolras raised his head to look up at the professor, Courfeyrac decided against his little prank. He might be lazy, he might be mischievous, and he might even be rather childish on occasion, he told himself, but one thing was certain – he was not unobservant.

Enjolras really did not look well! His skin was naturally pale, even when he was in the bloom of health, but today he looked practically colourless. Courfeyrac could clearly see the sheen of sweat covering his face, and the room was anything but warm. His eyes didn't look as sharp and attentive as usual either; they looked as though they were struggling to focus.

"Typical Enjolras!" he thought wryly. "Suffering and too proud to admit it to anyone! It is a good thing that he is the only one that stubborn!"

Unfortunately, Courfeyrac did not realise that he could not have been more mistaken!

But for now, he was decided – if Enjolras so much as even sighed throughout the remainder of this lecture, he was going to tell Combeferre that their friend was hiding something - for Combeferre was the only one who could really confront Enjolras without having to fear for his life!

Combeferre, in the mean time, was busy at work in one of the many small laboratories in the medicine-devoted wing of the university. He, Joly and LeClair were gathered around a workbench, peering down at a sheep's heart, and deciding where the best place was to begin dissecting.

"Move your scalpel up a little, that's right," muttered Joly distractedly, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief, as Combeferre meticulously began to work. "Well, friends...any bets on who will be drunk tomorrow night?"

"Hmmm, that is a difficult one, mon ami!" said LeClair sarcastically. "The name Luc Grantaire practically bounces to mind! Anyway, whoever it is, it shan't be me. I shall not drinking tomorrow night."

"Why not?" asked Combeferre in surprise. Though LeClair was not in the habit of getting ridiculously drunk like Grantaire, or even any more than moderately tipsy, he had never hesitated to join the Amis in a glass of wine on previous occasions. Joly was even more surprised to notice the shade of red which crept across LeClair's cheeks in response to Combeferre's question.

"Etienne, at the moment I have no idea where my next rent payment is going to come from, and it is due next Wednesday! I hardly think it would be very wise of me to be throwing what little I have away on alcohol!" he said, looking uncomfortable at the confession of his own poverty.

"Claude, you know you are always welcome to borrow from any of us if you are in trouble," said Joly kindly, laying his hand on LeClair's shoulder. "I would be glad to help you, if I could."

"Me also," said Combeferre, his gentle brown eyes shining with compassion. He and Joly were the sons of wealthy men, and it would be no trouble for them to lend their friend some money.

LeClair was touched, and for a moment tears threatened in his eyes, but his blush deepened and he squared his shoulders nevertheless. "You are very generous, both of you, and I truly do appreciate the kindness you show me, but no, thank you; you are my friends and I could not use you so."

"Use us?" said Joly incredulously. "That is nonsense Claude! You cannot use anyone if you accept a favour which is gladly offered. L'Aigle borrows from me all the time. I do not begrudge him a sou – I know he is much worse off than I am, but would do the same for me if our situations were reversed. Our friendship does not suffer for it, for I know he will pay me back whenever he can. I am simply glad to help a friend."

"I know that, Christophe," said LeClair softly. "But as they say: 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be'."

"Who said that?" remarked Combeferre interestedly, bowing his head over the heart once more as they continued to work. "Voltaire?"

"No." LeClair shook his head. "It is an English playwright – the name eludes me presently – whose work Jehan is currently very keen on. He was reciting some of it to me the other evening."

"Well you, my friend, are not an English playwright," said Combeferre. "And you must know that, should you change your mind, either of us would be happy to help you."

"Thank you, Etienne, I do appreciate it. Please do not think me ungrateful. I just simply cannot let myself accept it."

"Mon Dieu!" sighed Joly, in a surprisingly accurate impersonation of Courfeyrac. "I do declare, Claude, that you are becoming as proud as Enjolras! Thank heavens I am not that stubborn!"

At that, Combeferre burst out laughing and LeClair raised his eyebrows, regarding Joly with a teasingly sceptical look. "Indeed, my friend?" he grinned. "Then I must endeavour to remind you of an incident that occurred in the Café Musain last week, when a certain Christophe Joly and Sebastien Bahorel were shouting insults at each other so loudly, they even succeeded in waking Grantaire from his drunken stupor."

"Yes…well…he deserved that!" said Joly, colouring quickly. "I had been working for hours on that essay; it was almost five pages long, and just as I was writing the last paragraph, the great swaggering lout bursts in the door, talking to Jehan so quickly, I could not understand a word. He was flinging his arms about in that ridiculous way of his and, without even looking where he was going, the big lummox knocked my ink bottle clean over and onto my essay. There wasn't a single page still presentable – they were all ruined because he was so clumsy!"

"Ah, Christophe, mon ami." gasped Combeferre, laughing helplessly at the memory. "You should have seen yourself! You had a glare worthy of Julien, and you went so red I thought you might burst!"

"And I never imagined you could shout so loud, what with all the throat infections you always seem to have!" teased LeClair mercilessly, now thoroughly glad the discussion had moved away from his financial situation, and attempting to keep it that way. "I imagine the whole street heard you shouting: You stupid bloody lout! Look what you've done, you big oaf!"

"Though of course Sebastien's replying language was a little less gentle." chuckled Combeferre. "And when you started swearing too, Christophe, I just couldn't believe it. Hearing you swear is like seeing Jehan lose his temper – it never happens."

"He made me want to swear!" said Joly darkly. "Standing there cursing at me for being such a prissy little bastard, implying that I could just as easily do the essay again! He wouldn't even apologise, the big clumsy idiot!"

"And I think even the dead heard you next exclamations!" said LeClair gleefully, before mimicking his friend once more. "I do happen to take my studies seriously, Bahorel! I do plan on becoming a doctor one day! We cannot all of us be useless idle loafers like you! Honestly Christophe, the wealth of curses you used after that quite impressed me! And as for Sebastien's face when you threw that ink bottle at him! Priceless! I thought you were in for a bloody nose after that."

"I felt sorry for Feuilly!" said Combeferre, wiping his eyes. "Poor Jacques, trying to stand in between you and get you to calm down, only to have you both glare at him and yell at him to stay out of it. He didn't know who to side with either, for even though he is Sebastien's best friend, he was obviously sorry for you, Christophe. I must admire his courage though, stepping in between you and Bahorel rowing is a task beyond me."

"All right, all right!" said Joly hurriedly. "You need not reminisce any more, you have made your point abundantly clear, mes amis! Anyway, that was only the once."

"Once?" laughed LeClair. "What about the time Sebastien walked into the café with two black eyes and you decided to start laughing and asked him what woman was responsible? Or the time he deliberately tripped you up on the stairs and spilt wine all over your new jacket? Or the time he said…"

"Oh be quiet Claude!" Joly cried, blushing deeply and hurriedly searching for a change of subject. Combeferre subsided into chuckles again, while LeClair seemed to have laughed a little too hard, for he was wheezing and patting his chest with a pained look on his face. He shook away their concerns.

"Pardon," he said quickly. "It is nothing. I got a little carried away."

Combeferre was about to answer when the sound of coughing from the corridor distracted them. "You know, that influenza epidemic that Jehan was talking about is supposed to be very serious." he told the others solemnly. "I think we should all be especially careful over the next few weeks or so." Joly nodded fervently.

LeClair desperately fought not to cough. Not now! he thought in horror. If he gave way to another vicious bout of coughing like he had had this morning, he would never to be able to explain it away. They would surely know what was wrong with him, and would insist on his seeing a doctor and accepting money from them to pay for it. And he really couldn't allow that! He just couldn't.

Besides, it probably was not that serious. He would handle it on his own. After all, he was a medical student himself, wasn't he?