And Combeferre may have left without giving his bride her due. But she calls to him, and he turns, and softness fills his eyes as he looks at her. “I love you,” he says, and goes to her, and presses his lips to her forehead. “We will be all right,” he murmurs against her skin.

Of course they will be. They have each other.

“Stay here,” he tells her gently. “I will not be gone long. I love you.” And with a little more strength in his heart this time, he departs.