Bonjour once again, mes amis. I'm writing this while going totally crazy with happiness, 'cause I just found out that I've been accepted into University. Attribute any inconsitancies to my inability to think straight at the moment, lol.
Thanks once more for all the great reviews. :-D
Disclaimer: Only LeClair is mine
Chapter 7 - It's All So Unjust!
When LeClair departed from the Café Musain, he'd darted round the corner, his stomach heaving, and vomited all over the cobbles. He gripped a nearby doorframe in a desperate bid to stay upright, glad that no one else could see him.He gasped and wheezed, choking on his own ragged breaths and ferventlytried to keep from retching again. He shook his floppy hair from his eyes and attempted to regain some composure.
He felt cruel for feeling this way, but he couldn't help but be thoroughly grateful for Enjolras fainting when he did – there would have been no other time he'd have been able to vacate the café so quickly, without an explanation being wrung from him by his ever-alert friends. And he certainly could not have been sick in front of them!
Poor Julien – LeClair was pretty sure he was suffering from the influenza, especially when they'd talked about his temperature in such a fashion. But still, he'd have Etienne to nurse him, and it would be no wound to either of their purses to send for a doctor. That was the benefit of a wealthy family.
The stubborn LeClair had at last stopped denying the fact that he too was ill. Well – having just vomited all over the street without having had a sip of alcohol didn't leave much room for argument, did it?
No, he was ill…he'd admit that much. But even so, there was no way on earth that he was going to send for a doctor, or reveal his illness to any of the other amis – which would simply be a less direct way of sending for medical assistance. By selling his tie pin and cufflinks on the way to the café, he'd secured enough to pay his rent to Madame Dupont; though only just. Sending for a doctor would make paying the rent impossible.
And he would not end up in debt! He just wouldn't!
'You could always ask one of your friends to help you.' said the reasonable, sensible Combeferre-like voice in the back of his head.
"No!" he gasped out loud, straightening up and staggering on his way. "I will not treat my friends as money-banks! I respect them too much. And I will not have them pitying their penniless friend who cannot even afford to keep himself in a hovel! Mon Dieu, life is so bloody unjust! I'm trying to better myself to cure others of disease, and I can't even afford to help myself!"
By the time he had got to the end of this feverish, fervent and agitated speech, Claude LeClair once more found himself at the door to his dismal lodgings. He choked down the bile that he felt rising in his throat and made his way inside.
"Bonjour Claude dear, I'll just…Heavens above!" Madame Dupont gaped at his bloodless countenance in horror. "You look awful, love! Should I send for a doctor?"
"No!" LeClair said, with such vehemence that she blinked at him in surprise. "Forgive my rudeness, Madame, I have something of a headache and it is playing havoc with my temperament. Please, do not worry about me. I have just eaten something that does not agree with me. It is nothing more."
"If you say so, love." his landlady replied, regaining her usual cheerfulness - the boy was a medical student; he knew what he was talking about. "I'll get you a candle if you want to turn in early."
"I would appreciate that, Madame. Merci." Claude thankfully made his escape into his sorry bedroom and frantically grabbed at the basin by his bed, emptying what was left in his stomach into it.
'God, it's hot in here!' he thought, divesting himself of his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He rubbed the perspiration from his face and smoothed back his now rather damp chestnut hair. When Madame Dupont brought the candle, he rushed to the door to take it, not wanting her to see the evidence of his true condition, for she would be too motherly to overlook it. Though her home was lacking in comfort due to her own poverty, she more than made up for it in kindness.
LeClair stripped off his shabby clothes and got into bed, resting his aching head on the lumpy pillows, hoping that this prostrate position would settle his churning stomach.
It was rather ironic, he thought as he lay there, but now he was really experiencing the injustice that Enjolras so passionately talked of. He was pretty certain – by the application of his own medical knowledge – that he and Julien were suffering from exactly the same illness. They were both hard working, serious students who did not overindulge themselves in alcohol or anything else – and yet at this moment, it would be certain that Julien would be being tended by a competent doctor, while LeClair lay sweating and queasy in a room barely fit for habitation, unable to send for a doctor because doing so would cost every penny of his rent money at the very least. And all this injustice just because Julien's father was wealthy and titled (though Julien was not proud of this) while LeClair's father had been nothing of consequence when he was alive.
To sleep – perchance to dream…
The words of that English playwright whom Prouvaire so admired – damn it what was the man's name? – sprang unbidden to LeClair's mind.
Claude LeClair shut his eyes with a world-weary sigh and another dry retch. Sleep…that sounded like a good idea. And he would dream. He'd dream of the New France which Enjolras envisioned…Liberté…Egalité… There would be no bitter injustice there!
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The next morning, as might be imagined, the anxious Combeferre was by Enjolras's bed as soon as he woke up. His friend's temperature had not dropped in the slightest, but he seemed to be showing some signs of life, at least – he was stirring.
To Combeferre's utter amazement, Julien tried to get out of bed. Was he still trying to pretend he was all right? Honestly, the stubborn boy was absolutely impossible!
"Julien Enjolras, get back into bed right now!" he said in the sternest voice he could muster.
"I feel so…I'm going to be sick." Enjolras groaned very indistinctly, clutching at his stomach.
Combeferre hurried ran for a bowl and held it before his friend's chest, just in time, as Enjolras was violently sick. His blond hair was in disarray, plastered to his neck and forehead; while his shirt stuck to him like a second skin.
Combeferre got him back into bed again, and laid his hand on the clammy forehead. Enjolras's temperature was still scarily high.
"Do you feel any worse, Julien?" he asked urgently, as he reached for the medicine that Doctor Lassan had given him. He met the eyes of his friend and swallowed in dread.
Julien's knowledgeable, alert blue eyes were out of focus and glazed as he muttered a faint remark, which seemed to be about Robespierre and Napoleon. Evidently, he had no idea where he was. He was completely lost to a fever.
Combeferre gave him a dose of medicine and put a cool, damp flannel onto his forehead, before settling at his friend's bedside with a novel, ready to act if need be.
The rest of the morning passed peacefully enough. Joly called as soon as he left Courfeyrac's flat, making Combeferre swear to send for him if he needed help, and promising that he would return in the evening to let his friend have a bit of rest.
Both Courfeyrac and Grantaire, despite the fact that they usually made it their mission between them to try and make Enjolras lose his temper within ten minutes of entering the café, popped their heads round the door regularly to see if there was any change, genuine worry visible in both faces.
Combeferre knew that Enjolras would be exceptionally touched if he knew how much concern all his friends were showing for his wellbeing. It was no secret that Grantaire practically worshipped the ground he walked on, but Combeferre knew that his seemingly confident friend sometimes worried about what the others thought of him and his ideals. This display of loyalty from so many of the group – all of whom shared an exceedingly strong bond of friendship – left no doubt of the fact that Enjolras was highly respected by each and every one of them and regarded as not just a leader; but as a friend.
Prouvaire came by around lunchtime, when his morning lecture was over and sat conversing with Combeferre with some time.
They were in the middle of a discussion on the new production at the opera house when Enjolras, who had been lying quietly dozing for the past hour and a half, suddenly began tossing and turning. This gave way to a wrenching fit of coughing and he extended his hand into the air above him, calling out desperately:
"Nicolas! Nicolas! Come out of the trees! You'll get lost – only René knows the path! Papa is calling for you. You've got to go back to the house!"
As his hand closed around nothing, Enjolras's movements became more violent and he called out 'Nicolas' over and over again.
Prouvaire watched on in distress, as Combeferre leapt up and rushed to the bedside. He clutched the hand that Enjolras had extended with his own, and spoke to his friend in a gentle, reassuring voice. He felt so low, pretending to be the person his friend so fervently called for, but he could see no other way to calm him.
"Ssssh. It's all right petit frère, I'm here. I'm here, Julien. I'll come back to the house. Ssssh."
"Who is Nicolas?" asked Prouvaire, chewing his bottom lip, as Enjolras lay back again, calmed, closing his eyes as Combeferre smoothed back his hair.
"I feel so cruel, doing this to him." said Combeferre, blinking back tears. "Nicolas was his older brother – the same age as me. We used to play together, the three of us, all the time when we were children. Our family estates were next to each other, you see. We grew up together, and you'd never believe the mischief the three of us got into. Anyway, when Julien was eleven and Nicolas and I were fourteen, Nicolas came down with pneumonia. He fought it for about a week, but eventually he slipped away. Julien was heartbroken. He hero-worshipped his brother, and I don't think he's ever really gotten over the loss – that was when he became so solemn. That's why I feel so cruel pretending to be his brother, but I could see no other way to calm him!"
"You did the right thing, Etienne." replied Prouvaire in his gentle voice. "He could have hurt himself if he'd kept on jerking about like that."
"The doctor thinks that his fever should break in a couple of days." relied Combeferre desolately, gently releasing his hand from Julien's panicked grip. "I hope it does. I can't stand to see him like this Jehan. He's stronger than any of the rest of us. He doesn't deserve this."
"Of course he doesn't." Prouvaire replied. "But it often is so; the most honourable and virtuous are struck with misfortunes more deserved by those deviants who seem to have a stream of endless luck. It is simply the injustice of life, non?"
"You're right once again, my friend." sighed Combeferre. "But I will be overjoyed to see him back to his own self; talking about politics, joking about my somewhat varied wardrobe…"
"Scolding Courfeyrac and reprimanding Grantaire!" finished Prouvaire with a grin. "And he soon will be, Etienne. He soon will be."
Feuilly and Bahorel looked in on their way home and Joly came past in the evening, giving Combeferre some time to himself, but Enjolras lay in bed, wandering in some far off fantasy, oblivious to all those around him.
It did not matter though, because a recovery was expected by the doctor, and therefore a recovery the Amis of the ABC would hope for. As Feuilly remarked to Bahorel as they traipsed home;
"When has Julien ever backed down from a challenge?"
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The day had not been pleasant for poor LeClair. He was repeatedly and horrendously sick, he had shivered for most of the time and his head wasa constant source of agony.
However, the real horror did not come until dusk. He was coughing again, the wheezes tearing at his throat, when he reached for his handkerchief and spat a foul-tasting mouthful of stuff onto it. Then he recoiled.
"No! Please God, no!"
As realisation sunk in, he blinked in horror, watching as the liquid seeped through the thin fabric and onto his fingers.
There was no denying it…it was blood!
Poor LeClair, life is so unjust! And will Enjy make that recovery? To be continued...