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Exactly an hour after Enjolras had sent him to the polytechnicians, Courfeyrac returned to the Musain. The place was now empty, barring a few bottles that Grantaire had left after his dramatic exit. Courfeyrac stepped inside and shuffled out of his coat, making his way to the center table as he shook out leaves from his hair. He had only just taken a seat when the door opened once more.
“Back so soon?” he said without looking up. “Were the workers at Picpus so easily stirred?”
Combeferre scoffed as he removed his hat. “All too easily for my liking,” he said. “I came in ready to enlighten them on Lyon’s factory conditions but then they all but shoved me inside and had me inspect their rifles arsenal. Has Joly returned from Dupuytren’s?”
Courfeyrac shook his head. “We appear to be the most inspiring of rabble-rousers,” he drawled with sarcasm. “As for me, the polytechnicians merely had to see the sword in my cane before they sought my advice on barricade placements. They seek a position in the Latin quarter.”
Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a brief grin. All seemed to be well, and when the head of a weary Fricassee enjoined them for their orders, they asked for their usual with warm-hearted eagerness. They began discussing logistics and were deep in the subject of musket ball production when Courfeyrac remembered Combeferre’s previous inquiry.
“What of Joly though?” he asked. “Not to undermine our friend, but surely your words would have been given more credence among the medical men? As you are an intern?”
Combeferre shook his head. “It is because I am an intern that Enjolras did not send me. Officiers do not take well to future surgeons.”
At Courfeyrac’s perplexed expression, Combeferre continued: “Students of the secondary school are not particularly welcoming to students of the faculty, and Dupuytren’s clinic is filled with the former. It is not that they bear us ill will, but there is a certain”—Combeferre waved a hand vaguely—“animosity, though I suppose it becomes more glaring only after we graduate. We in the doctorate must take more courses, for our knowledge base covers the theoretical as well as the practical, whereas those in the officiate must train and apprentice themselves to compensate for their depth of study, or lack of it.
“Because of that, officiers have been called incompetent, even quacks, though I imagine those accusations came from the mouths of docteurs who have had their patrons shift to the less expensive alternative. I know many officiers—Palluaud from Saint Martin, Rabier from L’Estrapade—who are capable doctors, yet because of their slim means, they could not matriculate enough to carry the title of docteur.”
Courfeyrac only became more confused. “But you and Joly are both in the doctorate, are you not? Why would they only be less pliant to you?”
It was at this time that Fricassee arrived with their coffee, and Combeferre used the opportunity to inquire about the dark circles under her eyes.
“Because once we would have shared the same circumstances. I hoped once to be a barracks doctor.”
Courfeyrac’s brows rose to his hairline.
“You! A military position!”
Combeferre had the grace to look sheepish.
“Do not look so surprised! Years ago, in Poitiers, I would have settled for such a position. Promotion was slow, but there would be no lack of patients. Instead, the physician that I apprenticed myself to turned out to be a retired member of the Faculty. He recommended me to a private school, sponsored my baccalaureate, and further on, my doctorate. As a way to thank him, I took the concours and became an intern.” Combeferre blew the steam off his mug. “Now I am at Necker, and may quite possibly stay there.”
Courfeyrac pressed his lips to a thin line. In earnest debate, Courfeyrac was restless, excited, but when the spirit of cheerfulness was completely absent from his face, his thoughts were in a grave path indeed.
“You worry that they will think your good fortune unwarranted. And turn this against you.”
Combeferre nodded, his expression resigned.
“From physician’s apprentice to faculty chair...”
It was an ugly habit of the human race to limit their fellows—to impose, based solely on their birth, what other people could and could not achieve. Despite the value it placed on meritocracy, the medical profession was not immune to such maladies.
“What of Joly, then?” Courfeyrac wondered aloud. “Will they listen to him any better?”
“Thankfully, our Joly has long expressed his intention of joining with his father’s practice back in the country.” Combeferre gestured to Courfeyrac’s mug, reminding him that it was still untouched. “If he was to stay in Paris, he would have been their competitor, and they would have had to vie for the same patrons.
“Had I gone to Dupuytren’s, I would have been greeted with scorn. Joly, on the other hand, Joly would be considered harmless, and his disposition can dissipate miasmas.”
Courfeyrac reclined in the chair and let out a long sigh. He crossed his legs and brought his fingers together in contemplation. The coffee remained ignored.
“A good call on Enjolras then, to send him instead.”
Combeferre smiled.
“Though I suppose you advised him the night prior.”
He nodded.
As if they were sent by Providence, the door burst open, and a giggling Joly and Bossuet stumbled inside while overturning three chairs. Both were red in the face and most certainly drunk.
“Ah, fellow early birds!” greeted Joly. “Have you been here long?”
Courfeyrac glanced at his neglected coffee. “So it seems.”
“Well then, my eagle. It looks like we are not the only ones bearing good news, as these two have beaten us to the horizon.”
Combeferre straightened in his seat.
“Success then?”
“Of course!”
At his words, Combeferre exhaled a sigh of relief. Courfeyrac chuckled in answer.