Blind


Nicolas wakes early the following morning, but this morning he has no desire to get up and try to elude Combeferre. He lies in bed, running his fingers over his face where the girl did, and feeling cold inside. Dreams, dreams, dreams. He wants the revolution, he longs for it. It's more important now than ever before. Everything is. He depends too much on his Amis. He must do some things alone or they will never believe in him. He needs to make more speeches and rally ever more men. He needs to call them to him, and build his barricades in the streets of Paris. He needs to save his children.

He still feels cold inside, and it occurs to him that he's lonely. He thinks for a moment, childishly, that he wants Feuilly. Dear Feuilly, the man who reminds him of his children, with cold, worn fingertips, and the pleasant voice. He hasn't been with Feuilly in a few days now, and he rather misses him.

He turns over sharply as the door opens, and the familiar tread - that which belongs to Combeferre - enters.

"Nicolas?"

"Bonjour," he says tiredly.

"Nicolas." Combeferre draws over the chair and sits by the bedside. "Nicolas, I keep meaning to tell you. I know you care for the street children, but you can't continue to give money away like this. You just can't afford it."

"I'd give them everything."

"I know you would, but you can't. Be sensible. I know you can be sensible. You can't have much left by now. You don't have a job. You refuse to borrow money. You can't do this."

"I can. I don't intend to stop."

"Nicolas!"

Nicolas sits up, and catches both Combeferre's hands. "No, you don't understand! How could I stop? They expect me. They know when I come that I'll give to them. How could I just walk past them without doing so? I can't get a job. No one will hire a blind man. I can't borrow because I'd never be able to pay it back. But you can't tell me I ought just stop giving to them. They know me. I love them."

Combeferre sighs. "I know, I know. I know." He strokes back Nicolas' hair the same way Feuilly did a week ago.

"It's May, non? Lamarque is fading fast. I shan't need my money to last much longer anyway."

"I suppose that's true..." Combeferre sighs again. "Well, you'd best get up. You're growing a lovely beard."

"Oh--" Nicolas laughs, somewhat shakily. "I am, aren't I? All right." He takes a deep breath, regains his composure, and climbs out of bed. "And-- Combeferre? I'll try to give not... quite as much."

"Thank you," Combeferre says gratefully, and embraces him quickly.

Nicolas begins to feel a little less cold.


Chapter Eight.
Back to Chapter Six.