I am sorry that I never told you.  I suppose you had a right to know, whether you returned those feelings or not.  I wish I knew how you felt about me.  I guess I’ll never know now.  Do you hear me when I cry at night, mon petit?  Are you right there, keeping watch over me when one of those hideous nightmares has me in its clutches?  You do know I get those nightmares, don’t you?  Those visions of you, too weak to even sit up in bed.  In every dream, I kneel there at your bedside and watch your restless sleep.  I see it as vivid as though it were real, your poor wasted frame through the sheets.  I see that once-dazzling face marred by the ravages of the disease, and the short stubble that the lustrous, golden hair had been reduced to.  I remember how you protested when Joly told you he’d have to cut it off.  That was probably when I first realized how serious it was.  I kept a lock of that hair, you know.  Perhaps it’s infected; I don’t care.  It’s one of the few things I have to remember you by.

            In my nightmares, I sit there beside your bed, almost afraid to touch you.  At first, I think I’m afraid because I fear the disease.  Then I realize it’s because I don’t want you to open your eyes—I can’t bear the pain and vulnerability there.  Then, Joly comes into the room, moving smoothly, like liquid, or like a shadow.  He takes your pulse, then turns to me and shakes his head sadly.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs.  The reaction every night is the same—first comes the shock, then the disbelief, then the despair.  Then, worst of all, the emptiness, the dead feeling inside.  People like that have always frightened me.  Their eyes are blank, emotionless, like the people in those old ghost stories about the undead.  When my mother died, and my father became one of these living dead, with the vacant eyes, I swore to myself that I would never give in to that emptiness, no matter whom I lost.  Now, I watch my eyes grow a little colder each morning when I look in the mirror, a little harder, and a little grayer, and it utterly terrifies me, Marcelin.

            Now lately, the dreams have acquired a new twist at this point.  After Joly delivers his bad news, he slumps to the ground and becomes as still as death itself.  I reach out cautiously and turn him over onto his back.  The last thing I see is his pockmarked face, eyes fixed and staring from the death mask that his countenance had become.  Then I wake abruptly, trembling, with tears racing down my face.  More often than not, my landlady pounds on the door moments later, demanding to know if I was all right and why I was screaming.  Honestly, Marcelin, what can I tell her?  ‘I beg your pardon, Madame, I have these recurring nightmares in which I’m forced to relive the untimely demises of two close friends.  No need to worry, Madame, go back to sleep.’

            How much longer can I live this way?  Not a day goes by that I don’t see you, sitting there at the desk in front of mine, that day I first met you.  In my mind’s eye, you are not the shy, uncertain boy of sixteen; you are something of an angel.  Imagine that, a lovely, radiant, haloed creature seated in the front row of Blondeau’s class.  I suppose you really are an angel now, aren’t you?  How I wish I could see you with wings…
I digress.  Well, I only wanted to tell you that I love you.  I know, I know, I’ve told you that every day since you left me, but I just want you to know.  Take care of Joly, and take care of yourself.  Wait for me; I’ll be with you soon enough…I miss you.

            When he received no reply to his knock, Courfeyrac gently eased open the door and peered in.  Combeferre was kneeling beneath the window, his back to the door.  Hearing Courfeyrac enter, he turned to face the other man, wiping his eyes self-consciously.  The pale light of early morning spilled over him, and as the newcomer approached, Courfeyrac thought he saw something golden flash in Combeferre’s lightly clenched fist.
            “Talking to him again?” Courfeyrac asked gently.
            Combeferre nodded, rising to his feet and wandering over to the small, plain, wooden box that sat on his bed.  With the tenderness of a mother laying her newborn baby into a crib, he gingerly placed the precious lock of hair into the box and slid the small container beneath his bed.
            “I’m ready to go,” was all he said.  He slipped on his coat, which was still glossy black and well-brushed from the last funeral he had attended, a mere week earlier.
            Courfeyrac swallowed hard and made a lame attempt at cheerfulness. “Well, uh, Bossuet hasn’t killed himself yet, so I suppose that should be taken as a good sign…but then, you haven’t killed yourself yet either…” He choked back the rest of his words at the sight of tears trickling down his friend’s cheeks. “I’m sorry…I didn’t think—"
            “No, you didn’t.” Combeferre sighed. “But it’s all right.  I’d never do anything that rash…then I’d never get to see him again.  But now, let’s go, please, before I lose my nerve.”
            Courfeyrac nodded and slipped out of the room.  Combeferre followed, with one last glance back at the golden light filtering through the window and dancing on the wooden floorboards.  Perhaps seeing something in that beautiful glow that Courfeyrac could not see, he smiled softly and closed the door behind himself.

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