Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie,
Lorsque nous étions si jeunes tous deux,
Et que nous n'avions au coeur d'autre envie
Que d'être bien mis et d'être amoreux.

Joly broke away from the group. Jehan's soft voice and the ever-present consciousness that this might be it had lulled them into a half-trance as night fell, and only Bossuet watched the little hypochondriac's rustling retreat to the upstairs room.

Here he found the space was almost empty but for Grantaire, who had fallen asleep and was slumped over a table. Joly dropped into a chair across from him and stared listlessly at the top of the drunkard's head.

Is this the end?

He found himself worrying that Grantaire was sleeping with his head pointed south. Man is like a needle; it does not do well to position oneself against the pull of the poles. Joly turned his own chair slightly and found himself staring at the empty wall of the Corinth.

At least he was facing north, just in case.

Musichetta had still been asleep when Joly and Bossuet had left this morning. Both had known, without exchanging words, that it was better not to wake her. She would not have let them go. Even she had sensed that something was coming, and she had been clutching Joly even closer each night, her porcelain face buried in his neck. Both of their heads pointed north.

Joly's chest felt heavy; he was probably catching a draft, or had over-exerted himself earlier by lifting paving-stones. It hardly mattered now. All those years of pointing north and poultices, and now, after twenty-three of them, it was going to be over like this.

His thoughts turned to the unconscious Grantaire for a moment. Was he doomed as well, sleeping like one already dead? If he wasn't going to survive, there was no need to change his position, but if he was going to live, he might as well be pointing north, right? The little doctor prodded Grantaire's arm and received no response. He got to his feet and slowly nudged the heavy chair, inching it around and carefully transferring Grantaire's limp head onto the table that was just behind. It did not look like an entirely comfortable position, but it would be better for him. As long as he kept his head pointing north… Joly collapsed back into his chair, admiring his handiwork.

The little hypochondriac absentmindedly removed a small mirror from his pocket. It was a stupid thing to carry about—imagine what would happen if he fell, and the glass broke, and a shard of it pierced into his lungs!—but he found it comforting to know that, just in case anything came up, he could give himself a quick checkup.

Senseless. It was the end of the final act, perhaps even curtain call, and Joly was still worrying over his own fatal diseases. He fingered the mirror for a moment, then turned it and frowned at the reflection therein.

Well, he looked healthy. Ironically. It was the end of everything, the end of the world, and Joly was well. Hm. He squinted at his image, wrinkling his nose. What would he have looked like in old age, he wondered? There was a process his poor body would never have to cope with. He imagined tufts of gray in his blond hair, and deeper rings beneath his light eyes.

Musichetta would certainly grow old. Alone?

He paused.

Was that something he wanted? Of course he did not want her to spend the rest of her life in mourning—that would be ridiculous—but the mere thought of her sunshine smiles lighting another man's room, her cherry lips brushing over another man's flesh, or worse… Joly dropped the mirror and buried his face in his hands.

He should have lived, if just for her! Now she had to regret his actions forever or move on, and either way he would be miserable.

But he would be gone.

Paris and the world would go on without Joly. Musichetta would have to go on without Joly. Or die over him.

He found himself crying into his hands.

Joly produced his handkerchief and scrubbed the tears away, seizing the mirror again and blinking at his red, puckered face. Don't think on Musichetta. He stood before the firing squad in the name of the future, in the name of France.

In the name of Enjolras?

Nonsense. All of them held the same ideals.

Joly blinked at his reflection in the tiny mirror, holding it at an arm's length to see his whole countenance. It was a face he had seen so many times before—except for one thing. Joly stuck out his tongue.

Yes, that was better. This was the face he always saw, the look he knew so well. He had always glanced so idly at this block of flesh that represented him, his being, Joly. Yellow hair, white skin, and a pink tongue. But this was it. This was the end. This was the last time he would see it. And healthy! He could have splashed through puddles with his friends, frolicked stupidly in the snow with Musichetta, or just allowed Bossuet to rearrange the flat one time. None of that would have brought about a death earlier than the untimely end toward which he was hurling, headfirst, slipping into the abyss while sitting motionless in the familiar bistro. He had worked so long to preserve his health unto old age, and here he faced the end after hardly a score of years. And all of those studies were gone to waste!

Joly's tongue was beginning to feel uncomfortably dry, exposed to the air like this. He laid the mirror facedown on the table and closed his mouth.

And that was it. That was the end.

Joly went back downstairs to his friends. He turned his chair until he was pointing south.