Enjolras has taken the time to change, too. He didn't give the mess a second thought in the bar, but to be sitting around in his room with fresh clothes available and to forgo them with the blood of friends and strangers a bright smear across the linen -- to sit like some ghoul or gargoyle among his other friends once they come -- no. No.

So his shirt and cravat and waistcoat -- and jacket and trousers, when a brush of the hand across black fabric met dampness and faint staining -- have all been bundled into the laundry and replaced with fresh, his cockade switched from one lapel to another. The Milliways laundry is formidable. It will take care of Combeferre's bloodstains as it did Courfeyrac's and Joly's. (Enjolras's own clothing was as thoroughly ruined as Combeferre's waistcoat and shirt will be, but that's a slightly different matter.)

He's also taken the time to draft a brief note to Courfeyrac: Combeferre's arrived. In my room. --Enjolras. That note has been handed over to a rat in the hallway, with instructions to find Courfeyrac and deliver it as soon as possible. Similar notes for the others rest in his pocket, to be passed on a little later.

Combeferre will find him settled in one of the room's two chairs, in a familiar abstraction of thought. Still, when the bathroom door opens, he turns and smiles a little.