Chapter Twenty Three

The Guilt of a Survivor

Jean hadn't even noticed where his feet were taking him until he was stood in the dark, cramped alleyway that housed the beggar woman's hovel.

He didn't hesitate outside the damaged, brittle door before banging on it as hard as he could. It opened a heartbeat later and the woman stood, framed in the doorway.

"I knew it wouldn't be long," she sighed, standing aside so he could carry Clementine inside.

The crate that he had sat on was no longer there, and neither was the rickety wooden chair. There was a candle burning in the corner, and a couple of dark blue bottles sat beside it.

The woman shut the door behind them. "Put her down," she ordered, and despite his better judgement, Jean lowered Clementine's body onto the dusty, dirty floor.

The woman knelt by her side. He was alarmed when the woman reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a long, thin knife. He opened his mouth to protest as she began to cut the leg of Clementine's trousers away from her leg.

"Pass me those bottles," she ordered, dropping the blood-soaked rag onto the ground next to Clementine. He edged around them, grabbing the bottles and thrusting them at the woman. By the dim light of the candle, he could see blood coating his palms, sticky and making him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach.

"Can you save her?" he asked.

"Oh, calm down, boy," the woman said, pulling the cork out of the smaller of the two bottles and pouring its contents into the bloody hole in Clementine's leg. "This isn't life-threatening at the minute, and I've got enough magic on my side to make sure she won't lose a leg. Just sit tight and let me work. Then you can take her to somewhere safe. I believe those girls are nearby?"

He sank to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. "Do you mean Musichetta?"

"Actually, I referred to the other one, Hélène," the woman responded, taking the cork out of the other bottle and allowing a couple of drops to dribble out onto Clementine's leg. She rubbed her hands together and placed them over the wound.

"Hélène…Yes…They're nearby," Jean agreed. "I could take her there…it is closer than my house…then I can go back –"

"Hmm." The woman clucked her tongue. He looked at her hands, saw the blood seeping from underneath her palms. He felt like vomiting. "Let's just see how things go, shall we?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Never you mind," the woman said. "You just try and get some sleep. I'll wake you when I'm done."

III

Clementine's head felt like it was filled with cotton wool, and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She could feel her leg throbbing and aching and she clawed in the recesses of her brain for the memory of what happened. She could…She could remember gunfire and then a horrible, sickening pain in her leg but after that, it was all a blur.

She found she couldn't open her eyes, but she could just about hear voices. A man – instantly familiar to her as Jehan – and then a woman's voice, but the woman's voice, she couldn't recognise at all. They sounded like they were nearby, though, and Jehan sounded…He sounded upset. More than that, actually; it sounded like he was speaking through sobs.

She frowned internally, wanting to open her eyes and scramble out of bed to comfort him. What had him so upset? Was it her being injured? Don't be silly, she wanted to tell him, I'll be fine…

"Courfeyrac knew I wasn't coming back," Jehan was mumbling in a very thick voice. Maybe his tongue was too big for his mouth as well. "He knew I wasn't…He said it was an honour to know me but how could it be? I abandoned them –"

"No, no, no," the woman was replying in a soft, soothing voice. "You didn't. Jean, you can't think like that. He told you to go because he knew it was what was best…"

"But they're dead," Jehan said. "They're all dead!"

"Yes, they are, but Clementine isn't." The woman's voice was almost desperate in its effort to comfort the devastated man. "Which was why you left. Jean, you can't…You can't blame yourself…"

"I should never have left," Jehan murmured.

"If you hadn't left, Clementine might have died," the woman whispered.

"And that's my fault, too," Jehan said, letting out a hollow, humourless laugh. "She should never have been there. She's too young, she has her whole life ahead of her, and I nearly took that from her – she could have died and it would have been my fault, she was only there because of me –"

"Your actions saved her," the woman said sharply. "You saved her. You have made sure that she lives, and she can have the long life ahead of her…with you," she added, in a quieter voice. "Jean, none of your friends would begrudge you that."

Clementine felt herself drifting off to sleep once more.

III

When she woke next, she found she could open her eyes. She was wearing a white nightdress, and Jehan was by her bedside, in fresh clothes. But there was something noticeably different about him – the bags beneath his eyes, the haunted expression on his face, the sag of his shoulders.

She managed to put a face to the voice she heard when she was sleeping. It was a woman named Hélène. She had dark brown corkscrew curls, a pleasant, open face, and a kindly manner. She brought Clementine food – a simple stew and some slightly stale bread – and left her alone with Jehan.

"What happened?" Clementine asked, setting the tray aside.

Jehan shrugged. "I took you to the fortune teller," he said, in a dull voice. "She treated your wound with…I don't know what with. It's healing fast, though. Then she told me to take you here, because it was close by. Hélène agreed to help us. You're in her house now."

"I gathered as much." Clementine hesitated. Jehan's eyes were very red and damp, so she knew he'd been crying. "What…What else has happened?"

"The barricade fell," he said. "I couldn't get back there in time. They're all dead. All my friends." His voice broke on the last word and he covered his face with his hands. "I wasn't there," he said.

Clementine moved, ignoring the pain in her leg. She managed to put her hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away from the contact.

"Eat," he commanded, getting to his feet. "I'll…I need…"

He fled the room. Her heart sank as she watched him leave. She didn't know what to do. What did you say to someone who had just lost all of his friends?

She tried not to think too hard about it and busied herself with eating the stew. The stew was a bit bland, the meat chewy, but it went down easy enough considering she was only eating to keep her mind occupied.

Still, her mind wandered. She couldn't help but think – if she hadn't been there, then Jehan wouldn't have left his friends – he wouldn't be feeling so guilty…

"No, but he would be dead," Hélène said.

Clementine jumped and dropped the lump of bread she'd been holding into her stew. She hadn't realised that Hélène had entered, or that she had apparently spoken out loud.

"I cannot be dealing with too much guilt," Hélène continued, "So don't go blaming yourself. You were there because you…because you love him, yes?"

Clementine nodded, not sure what else to say.

"And he saved you because he…he loved you," Hélène continued.

"I just don't want him feeling guilty," Clementine said.

"Unfortunately, he will do." Hélène sighed and sank into the chair that Jehan had vacated. "It will never completely go away."

Clementine chewed on the bread she rescued from the stew. Once she had swallowed, she said, "I don't really know how to deal with it. I've never…I mean, my grandparents died before I was born – I've never lost anyone…"

"I have," Hélène said, slowly. "And I understand what he's going through. My family died in a fire when I was a girl. I was out, being naughty as usual, and I survived. The guilt has never really left me – the idea I should have been there, died with them. I had to leave, in the end. There's only so many times your own aunt can stare at you as if you're the devil himself because you survived a fire that killed the rest of your family."

Clementine lowered her head. "So he won't…he won't stop feeling guilty?"

"I think it will get easier," Hélène corrected. "Never go away completely, but he will, eventually, come to terms with it. In his own way."

Clementine pushed her food away from her. "I don't feel hungry," she muttered.

Hélène gave her a sad look. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Clementine wasn't sure what she was apologising for, but she felt grateful for it nonetheless.

III

She fell asleep not long after, her leg still aching and her body exhausted.

When she woke up, she was no longer in Hélène's bed, but back in her own room at university, with only the ghost of a scar on her shin to remind her she was ever on the barricade in 1832.