Enjolras is wondering what it would have been like to encounter that world's Combeferre, or Feuilly, or Joly, or any of the others. He hasn't thought yet of the strangeness of encountering himself.

"Still."

Still, what a miraculous gift.

Everything else he could say feels like an empty pleasantry, understated to pointlessness: Still, you saw it, or it's good she was there to tell you of it, or something else to wrap needless words around the heart of this bittersweet joy that overwhelms him. He presses Combeferre's hand once more, trusting -- knowing -- that Combeferre will know what's in his heart. All of them would share the same thoughts in the face of this.