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Feuilly awoke several hours later, lying on his back, with a searing pain in his shoulder. A woman was bending over him, washing his face with a damp rag. He shut his eyes tightly as memories flooded him.
The barricade, his closest friends falling and dying around him. He, unable to stop it. Eponine's face when the bullet pierced her leg…Eponine! Dear God, where was she?
He tried to sit up, but the woman placed a hand in the middle of his chest.
"You just stay right there, young man," she commanded, "you're in no shape to be going anywhere."
He blinked stupidly up at her round, jovial face.
"But...'Ponine…the girl I brought with me…" he attempted, unable to complete his sentence.
"She'll be fine," the woman said, "She's just in the next room."
"I need to see her," he said simply.
"You need to eat something," came the reply, "and leave her to rest. Poor thing was exhausted after we removed the bullet. She won't wake for awhile, and you might as well use the time to get something in your stomach. It'll do you good."
Feuilly was at a loss. In his current state, there was little he could do except swallow the broth that was being spooned insistently into his mouth, and chew the bread that followed. Last, the woman emptied a paper packet of bitter powder onto his tongue, and held a glass of water to his lips.
"That'll help you sleep. When you wake up, you can see the girl. All right?"
"Mhmm," he mumbled, his eyes suddenly very heavy. Feuilly slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber, and didn't awake until the next morning. A man stood by him this time, rebandaging his shoulder, which throbbed worse than before.
"Ah, you're awake again," the doctor said briskly.
"I wish I wasn't," Feuilly groaned.
"You're in better shape than you should be," was the reply, "don't know why you were in the sewer, and I don't want to know, but you should have picked up a far worse infection than you did. Your lady friend's got a bad one."
"Will she be all right?"
"She'll be fine; we caught it just in time. She's in a lot of pain, though, and will be for awhile. Won't say a word to me or my wife except 'thank you' and to ask if 'Feuilly' is all right. I'm guessing that's you?"
"Yes."
"I'm Doctor Joseph Lemaitre."
"I owe you both our lives, Doctor Lemaitre. I don't know how I'll repay you."
"Don't worry about it," the doctor said gruffly, waving a hand, "reimburse me for the medicines. I won't charge for my services or your keep."
"I'd be forever in your debt."
"You've got someone waiting for you," Lemaitre said, tying off the bandage, "go through that door. Careful now. There's a bowl of broth and some bread on the nightstand. See if you can get her to eat."
He helped Feuilly up, and Feuilly walked to the door, his whole body tense with anticipation as he grasped the knob and turned it.
The room was more dimly lit than his, because the curtains were pulled. Eponine lay there alone, pale and thin, her eyes turned upward. She didn't look at him as he entered.
"That's not a very kind greeting for your fiancé, chère," Feuilly teased gently. Eponine sat upright, gingerly and quickly at the same time.
"Feuilly?" she asked.
"Who else?" he replied with a smile, crossing the room to gather her in his arms and drop gentle kisses on her hair and her face. She was crying.
"They wouldn't let me see you," she sniffed, "I was afraid that you were dead."
"Oh, chère," he said softly, "I could never die, as long as you needed me."
Eponine reached up and touched his face, tracing his jaw, his lips with her small, cold hand. He grasped it between his and held it to his breast. It was her left hand, and she still wore the ring he had given her.
Feuilly examined her hand in the dim light. The tiny stone still sparkled bravely through the coat of grime it had gathered in the battle. He used the sleeve of his shirt, which had been laundered and returned to him, to wipe it away. Eponine smiled softly.
"Do something for me, chère," he requested.
"Anything."
"Eat something. The doctor says that you haven't since you got here. You'll need your strength to heal." He picked up the bowl of broth and held a spoonful to her lips. She ate it willingly, with an edge to her appetite.
He sat with her for awhile, noting with satisfaction that the color returned to her cheeks and she became more animated the longer he stayed. The doctor came in after a few hours, giving Eponine a packet of the powder that he had given Feuilly earlier.
"She needs sleep now," he said, "and you need to lie down again."
Feuilly nodded. His shoulder had begun throbbing again, and just sitting up had become a chore.
"Stay with me…until I fall asleep," Eponine murmured. He smiled and kissed her forehead.
"Of course," he whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her face. By the time he had tucked it behind her ear, she was sound asleep. Doctor Lemaitre escorted Feuilly back into the other room and gave him the same medicine.
This became routine for the next few weeks, Feuilly alternating between sleep and caring for Eponine. He was healing faster than her, having escaped infection, and soon Doctor Lemaitre released her into his care.
Feuilly brought her to his home again, and sent for Muschietta to care for her during the day so that he could work again. He had lost nearly a month's worth of painting fans. He sent a message to Eponine's former employers. They had hired a new girl, they said, but she was scatterbrained and not as smart, and they would be grateful to have Eponine back when she had healed.
Eponine didn't want him to leave; she feared losing him. But he comforted and reassured her that he would be back at the end of the day, like always. She let him go only with kisses and promises of his return.