4th August, afternoon

Charcot paused as if it was a reasonable idea that he had not yet considered.  Paol was angry, but he found that he did not mind.  He felt calm, almost serene.  "To ask if he'll write to my family for me."  They might receive word that he was dead.  Already.  But at least he could send them words of love and faith one last time.  They deserved that.

"I'm sorry." What was wrong with him? He would never have said something like that, not to Charcot, not in his state. Could he not even trust himself now? He shook his head slowly. He did not know if he believed Charcot or not, but he supposed it made sense. Another goodbye, a setting in order of affairs.

Anger was beginning to give way to defeat and he added heavily, "I think we've troubled that family enough for one day. Tomorrow."

All the independence and determiniation of a moment before melted away.  Paol had a point, and Charcot knew he could barely make it across the courtyard on his own.  His wet clothes and hair were proof enough of that.  He could wait one more day. Probably. "All right."  And he began walking up the stairs, back to their little room.

There was no argument, just mute compliance and somehow that was less of a relief than it ought to have been. Still, he had bought another day. Maybe. He waited for Charcot at the top of the stairs, then lead the way back to their room.

Once behind the door again, he picked up one of the blankets still folded at the end of the bed. "Here," he said, handing it to Charcot.

"Thanks." Charcot rubbed the blanket against his hair and then laid it aside to remove his waistcoat and shirt. He dropped them on the floor, heedless of where they fell, and then sank to his bed. He did not know if Bright was awake or not, but even if it meant fresh mockery, he did not really care. His mind was busy composing a last letter to home.