Combeferre feels very awkward as he makes his way to Valjean's room with a tray.

He didn't know what Valjean likes to eat, so he he'd settled for the simplest: bread, eggs, milk, coffee, some fruit. Combeferre had considered first asking Valjean whether he had eaten or not, and then asking him what he liked to eat.

But, on reflection, Combeferre had decided that the answer to the first question was very likely to be "no," if Hugo's account and the evidence of Combeferre's own diagnostic eye had any weight at all. And Combeferre knew Valjean wasn't going to give him a forthright answer to the second question.

Very likely the unfortunate old man would simply respond to such a query by speaking more about his daughter.

If confronted with an actual tray, however, Valjean might eat out of sheer politeness. Combeferre would take that. He could not heal Valjean's soul; he could only, at most, prevent Valjean from accidentally harming Enjolras's body via starvation or other neglect, while absorbed in grief.

Combeferre reaches the room door, takes a deep breath, and raps sharply. "M. Valjean? It's Combeferre."

Combeferre pokes his head into Duncan's stable. He has a small tablet attached to a small speaker. He carries all this equipment without difficulty--everything is small and not heavy--but with a certain tentativeness, like he's scared he might break something.

He's still not clear on who named the horse Duncan. He doesn't think it was Feuilly. But...Feuilly's been spending some time here, and Combeferre became curious about one or two horsey questions.

The place does look rather lived in. By a human. There's a cot-like thing. Feuilly must have been here more often than Combeferre thought.

Combeferre walks up to Duncan and starts petting his nose.