Chapter Text
June 4th, 1832
Combeferre was nervous. It was a violent, aching anxiety that settled in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. He steadied himself by cleaning his prized pistol over and over again but that only exacerbated the constant fear. He knew, though he couldn’t explain how or why, that something awful was happening.
It was almost a relief when Joly barreled into his apartment at noon, cravat untied and waistcoat unbuttoned. Combeferre carefully set his pistol down and waited for the catastrophe to be revealed so he could fix it and allay his nervousness.
“Bousset’s collapsed! I think it might be cholera!” Joly spluttered. Combeferre felt as if he had been slapped and then, slowly, he calmed. Joly was overreacting, as he had done dozens of times before. This wasn’t the catastrophe he had been dreading. This was a case of nerves gone awry.
“Have you examined him?” Combeferre asked, expecting the observed symptoms to be laughably vague. Joly paused to catch his breath against the dresser. He apparently ran over.
“Yes, his pulse is fast and he vomits at an amazing rate. At first it contained food and bile, but now it seems more like rice water than anything. I’ve read my books a dozen times over and I don’t know what else it could be,” Joly said.
Combeferre felt as if he’d been slapped for a second time except the shock didn’t fade. He knew the symptoms of cholera like the back of his hand and he knew that if what Joly said was true, a positive diagnosis was likely. He knew there was no cure for cholera. He knew it was a painful death.
“I’ll get my bag but perhaps you ought to call a…” Combeferre hesitated, “real physician.”
As expected, Joly looked mildly offended.
“I just haven’t completed my medical training and neither have you. It might be helpful to have a practicing doctor offer their opinion,” Combeferre said, mollifying Joly. Combeferre, who had an internship and therefore much more experience than Joly, did not mention that if it was an advanced stage of cholera, there wasn’t much a doctor, student or anyone could do. It was for his own peace of mind. Combeferre did not want to be solely responsible for his friend’s death.
They half-ran down the street. Combeferre realized, too late, that he had forgotten his hat. It didn’t seem important. His blood rushed in his ears and the panic that previously rested just below the surface, now threatened to consume him. Combeferre remembered, with a slight shock, that anxiety was an early symptom of cholera and thought that he ought to take a draft of calomel. Whatever miasmas Bousset had been lurking around, Combeferre likely had come in contact with too.
When they reached the apartment building, Joly bounded up the stairs three at a time while Combeferre followed slowly, counting his breaths methodically. Joly kept calling down for him to hurry.
Combeferre had seen perhaps hundreds of cases of cholera in his short medical career but nothing prepared him to witness it in his friend. Bousset lay on Joly’s bed, dry skinned and pale, a chamber pot of clear liquid by his head. His eyes were closed in seeming sleep though his legs twitched.
“Spasmodic cholera,” Combeferre whispered. Joly gasped and clutched Combeferre’s hand.
There wasn’t much to do.
Combeferre didn’t have the heart to give Bousset a purgative and make him suffer more. Even bleeding the man was difficult. Joly, usually quite cheerful around blood, looked away. When the room was cleaned and Bousset wrapped in a plethora of blankets, it seemed almost surreal.
“Laudanum would be quite nice now,” Bousset called, his voice dry and hoarse. Joly let out a joyless laugh. Combeferre shook his head; while a dose would ease the pain, it would also quicken the demise. Were it he ill, he would have preferred a quick and painless end but Joly was insistent that there was still hope.
They waited. Enjolras came by and, voice trembling, demanded Bousset regain his health before Lamarque’s funeral. For the first time, his order was not obeyed. Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Bahorel came with brandy and handfuls of cheerful daisies they had stolen from the front yard of some aristocrat. The petty thievery cheered Bousset immensely, as did the brandy, under Combeferre’s careful supervision. The guests didn’t stay long. It was unbearably awkward. Joly was on the verge of tears and Bousset was half-delirious.
Joly’s mistress appeared at dinnertime with a loaf of bread. She proved a more comforting nurse than Combeferre could ever hope to be and he watched, from a distance, as they said their goodbyes. Bousset’s skin had begun to take on a blue tinge and his fingers wrinkled. He continued to produce buckets and buckets full of clear water.
When the end came, it was quiet. Combeferre perhaps would have preferred to look away except he was hardly aware Bousset had died until Joly asked him to verify the time of death. It was almost peaceful.
Combeferre arranged for the morgue to pick up the body. He left quickly. He felt he was intruding on Joly and Musichetta's grief.
Enjolras was waiting for him in his apartment. Combeferre sank into his bed. He had done little but sit and watch Bousset all day but he was exhausted. The anxiety had faded to a dull numbness in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or just sleepy.
“I wish he could come tomorrow,” Enjolras whispered. Combeferre nodded.
“He would have wanted to,” Combeferre agreed. They sat in silence.
“Perhaps we should sleep,” Enjolras said weakly. He was never one to argue for more rest but perhaps he saw how Combeferre’s face had become pale and gaunt. Combeferre saw it in the mirror as he washed his face for bed. He frowned at his reflection.
“I’m taking calomel to be safe. Bousset and I both went to the slums last week to pass out flyers,” Combeferre said. He rifled through his bag.
“Is that wise?” Enjolras asked. He had already changed into his nightshirt and was perched on Combeferre’s bed like an owl.
“The effects will be over before the funeral,” Combeferre said. He surveyed the clear bottle of white liquid nervously. Taking a purgative was not a pleasant experience.
“Do you feel unwell?” Enjolras said, his round face etched with worry.
Combeferre struggled to articulate his gut feeling of anxiety but instead just shook his head.
“I’m concerned Bousset and I came across the same miasmas but I’m sure I’m fine.” Before Combeferre could worry himself out of it, he measured the appropriate dosage and downed it, wincing as the tasteless liquid slid down his throat.
“Do you want me to stay up with you?” Enjolras asked. Combeferre shook his head again.
“Go to sleep. I’ll let you know if I need anything. I’ll probably join you in a few hours.”
Enjolras grumbled but exhausted from planning the next day’s protest, soon fell asleep. Combeferre felt the effects of the calomel quickly. He tried to calm his frenzied nerves by reminding himself that whatever imbalance was in his body, he’d soon right it.
At midnight, Combeferre, sleepy and feeling sicker by the minute, tried to mix brandy and water with shaking hands. It burned his esophagus and came back up a few minutes later.
By two in the morning, Combeferre was prodding Enjolras awake. Enjolras, momentarily lost in his dreams, tried to pull the quilt over his eyes.
“What?” he moaned, rubbing his eyes.
“I think,” Combeferre said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “that I’m suffering from the early stages of cholera.”
Enjolras sat up, all tiredness gone, and examined Combeferre’s face with warm hands.
“You’re pale,” he whispered.
“I think I’ve caught it in time for treatment to work. I’ve bled myself extensively and taken, in turn, measures of brandy and laudanum.” Combeferre tried to adopt the calm voice he used when talking to the families of patients at the Necker. Enjolras nodded.
“Try to rest. I can go get Joly.”
“No!” Combeferre’s own boldness surprised him. Enjolras looked confused.
“Let him mourn. The treatment is simple and I just need someone to administer it, if you don’t mind,” Combeferre said. His voice shook. His panic had overtaken him. He could not remember ever being so scared.
“Of course,” Enjolras said. Combeferre let out a sigh of relief and let himself be dragged into bed. Textbooks were brought out and instructions given. Enjolras composed a long letter to Combeferre’s parents, dictated by Combeferre. Messages were sent to Courfeyrac and Jehan. By sunrise, Combeferre slept knowing he had prepared as best he could. He woke up soon afterwards to vomit a milky, almost clear liquid.