30 July, Une maison renfoncée

"Steady, m'sieur," Todd murmured, grimacing inwardly at the mess he could now clearly see. The poor fellow. "I will have to clean the burns before applying any dressing, which I'm afraid will hurt. Do you want some laudanum before that begins?"

As he spoke, he discarded the old bandages, thereby freeing his hands so he could accept both the linen pad and the laudanum vial from the Rifleman. He uttered a word of thanks to the fellow, then glanced reprovingly at Michael, who chose that moment to offer an indignant, "Could've given me some first, too!"

Laudanum? Paol seemed to hesitate, then shook his head. "I'll be alright."

Very well. Personally, Todd would have accepted the offer, but perhaps he was not as firm in constitution as Paol. "Measure out six drops into this glass," Todd said to the Rifleman, after producing a small measuring glass from his pocket, "and give the dose to Michel here. Six drops and no more."

Now it was on to cleaning those burns. Brandy would not suit the purpose, so Todd called out toward the barn's door and after a very brief but obvious hesitation, a young Guardsman hurried forward. It was the same fellow who'd come to fetch him earlier. Todd relieved the lad of his canteen, took a sample sip to ensure it was water, then soaked the linen pad with which he'd swab Paol's arm.

"Now," he said presently, changing easily back to French. "This will smart, perhaps quite badly."

Burke took the glass carefully, and uncorked the vial of laudanum. Six drops was terribly specific, and he willed his hand to be steady as though he were taking aim. He slowly watched each drop roll into the glass, counting under his breath, and then turned to the indicated Frenchmen.

"'Ere," he said, holding out the glass. He wished he knew enough French to indicate that the surgeon had said to drink. "That is..." He was reasonably sure he knew the word for drink. "Boisson. From th' doctor."

That wasn't quite right, he didn't think, but hopefully it would be enough.

Holy Mother, it hurt. The soft linen pad might as well have been gritted with sand. Virge. His body gave another convulsive jerk and he let out a strangled oath in his own tongue. He should have taken the laudanum. The hell with keeping his head clear.

Bracing himself against the stall door, he shut his eyes, fighting the impulse to pull away. A low growl of pain rose in his throat, then shattered into a whimper as the pain redoubled.

"Merci," said Michael - blessedly, he had the wisdom to stick to French and thus avoid difficulties. He took the glass and tossed back its contents in a quick swallow.

For his part, Todd was working as quickly, yet as carefully, as he could. Burns had never been a favourite injury, whether to treat or to see, but fortunately for Paol, it seemed he had escaped a serious burn.

"There," he said presently, tossing the filthy, ruined linen pad away. It would have been an absolute agony but now the arm was clean and, happily, seemed free of any signs of infection. "Would you care for some laudanum now, before I put any dressings in place?"

Paol slumped back against the wall, dragging in one shuddering breath, then another. It was a moment before Jacques's words registered. Opening his eyes, he stared with bleary uncertainty at the surgeon. "You—you won't ask me questions, will you?"

Before answering, Todd half-turned to address the Rifleman in English. "Another six drops into the glass, lad, if you don't mind."

It was enough to dull pain and, in the case of a weary mind and body, lull the patient to sleep. Todd suspected the latter to be true in this instance.

"Are there questions I should ask, m'sieur?" He wanted to know, reverting again to French. Very deliberately, he did not look in Michael's direction. At least it seemed that the wounded Englishman was falling victim to the laudanum's effects and would shortly be asleep himself.

He shut his eyes again, fighting back nausea. "No." It was more of a plea, than a statement.

Todd inclined his head. "Very well - though you may, if you wish, ask questions yourself." This was, in his opinion, only fair. Especially since he had essentially interrogated the poor fellow about his companion.

There was a visible ebb of tension from his body. "Thank you," Paol murmured, though it seemed a trite expression of how desperately grateful he was for the man's help, for even that concession alone.

"You're welcome," said Todd, and again found himself obliged to switch languages so he could address the Rifleman. "Never mind the laudanum and pass me that bottle there."

Then, with a fleeting smile, he nodded at Paol. "A swallow or two of brandy for you, unless you object?"

With a weak laugh, Paol shook his head. "No objections."

From outside, a distinctly annoyed voice boomed, "Surgeon! Have you traded colours on us? What the devil are you doing in there? They are only Frenchmen, for the love of God!"

Todd made a face. "Merde," he muttered, then checked himself. "Pardon. Yes, the brandy. Two inches will do, I think. Rifleman?"

Paol's brows knit together in sudden concern. If the officer's words were meaningless, his tone was all too clear. "Will he make trouble for you?" he asked Jacques. Officers, in his experience, seldom made anything else.

Todd waved a hand dismissively, his momentary flicker of temper past. "He may try, but he is only a Guardsman. Now, here, drink." He held out the glass of brandy.

Taking the glass in slightly unsteady fingers, he drained it off, feeling the slow, burning warmth spread through his chest and settle in his stomach. That alone seemed to ease some of the aches of the past several days. "Thank you," he said again, handing it back. It was a moment before he realized he'd spoken in Breton and hastily corrected himself. "Not just for the brandy," he added suddenly, awkward and earnest, "I mean--all of it. Roux and Michel and everythin'..."

A slight smile twitched at the corner of Todd's mouth. "You're welcome, m'sieur. Every man is equal when he is wounded. Even him," he added with a nod toward Michael. "Now, your arm needs to be dressed. It should not hurt too badly, nor take very long."

Paol nodded, tensing as the surgeon set to work, but Jacques was right, it hardly hurt, and with the aid of the brandy, exhaustion was rapidly overtaking him. Sleep. He couldn't seem to remember the last time he'd slept.

Charcot. Forcing his eyes open for what felt like the twentieth time, Paol tried to concentrate as the surgeon finished securing the dressing. He still needed to find--No, he'd found Charcot. He just needed to make sure he was alright. Then -- his eyes had slipped shut again and he dragged them open -- then he could sleep.

There. That had been straightforward enough. All that remained was to gather up his supplies and move on to the next patient - that fellow nearby with quite a bad gash on his head.

"It helps, m'sieur, to lie down before one goes to sleep," Todd observed mildly.

"Could fall asleep marchin', me," he countered with a weary grin. And he had on more than one occasion. It worked alright until the column came to a bend in the road.

He didn't doubt that in the least. "I am sure. Lie down now, before you topple over. There'll be no sleep-marching for a while."

Lie down. That sounded good. He nodded slowly, then frowned. Wait...

"Jus' got to check one of the others first," he mumbled, trying to push himself away from the wall. He blinked down at his good arm. When had it become so heavy? He tried again and this time succeeded in at least sitting up straight.

"Sit down," said Todd in a firm voice. "I will look after your comrades in their turn."

Jacques' tone stopped him quite effectively. "No, it ain't-- it ain't that," he stammered, his French growing increasingly clumsy, "He can't see. I can't--He won't know what's happened."