Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief when the woman replied in his own tongue, albeit with a foreign accent. What with everything that was going on, he couldn't deal with trying to remember what little English he knew as well.
Her question caught him slightly off guard. He should be hurt. He remembered being executed; he remembered the deafening sound of the volley of fire and the explosion of pain as the bullets had entered his body; he'd felt himself propelled backwards and heard the tinkle of glass shattering around him as his body broke through the window behind him. His eyes had closed at the impact but the next time he'd opened them he was here, in this strange, futuristic city, with no idea how he'd got there or where 'there' actually was.
"No," he said, a frown creasing his strong brow. "Not hurt..." He spoke in French, trusting that the woman would understand him, at least enough to grasp what he meant. He lifted his dirt- and blood-stained hands to his chest, feeling gingerly at the tender skin beneath the tatters of his shirt. "I'm not bleeding," he told her, looking up slowly, the confusion plain in his steely gaze. "This blood is... old. My wounds are healed."