7th August, late afternoon - Venir le Médecin

Foucheaux looked up at him, frightened and not attempting to hide it. "What? What are you going to do now?"

"I need to remove the dead tissue, otherwise the infection will continue to spread."

Foucheaux's eyes widened. He glanced at Kerjean, whose eyes were closed, and then whispered, "You're not going to take his whole arm, are you?"

"Now? No." He held up the linen pad for Foucheaux to see. "This is all I shall need for the moment." If the infection progressed, however, amputation would likely prove necessary, but Montreuil had little patience for hypotheticals.

"Oh," he said with relief. A cloth pad couldn't be too bad. He held his friend's arm and told him, "You'll be fine soon, Paulot."

Gripping Kerjean's wrist for the last time, Montreuil set to work. The response was immediate and violent, or would have been had there been any strength behind it. There was no recognition in Kerjean's eyes now, just pain and fear.

"Hold him," snapped Montreuil, scrubbing at the damaged skin. But necessity aside, he had pushed too far. Something had broken. Kerjean began to babble, pleading in an anguished patois of Breton and French. Montreuil could feel the pulse in his wrist throbbing dangerously fast.

Suddenly he broke off, leaning forward and gripping Kerjean by the shoulder. "Paol." He spoke firmly, almost gently, and for a moment Paol almost seemed to calm somewhat.

"I'm sorry," he choked, "I'm sorry. Don't tell, Maugan. Please, don't say anything. I'm sorry..."

"Paol, it's all right!" Foucheaux said, almost pleading with him to believe it.  "It's all right, you're doing fine!  Nobody's gonna tell."  He looked up at Montreuil in agony and took a moment to rub his forehead.  "Are you done?  Can't he have some more laudanum or something?"

"Holy mother!" whispered a voice from the doorway.  The two women of the house were standing there, peering in but not daring to venture any closer.  The younger had covered her mouth with her hands.  The sight of his bloody, oozing red arm, and the sounds of his terror, and even the smell were horrifying.

Paol was white and shaking, but the familiar voices, Foucheaux and Montreuil, slowly stilled the blind panic which had seized him. "I need to finish debriding your arm -- scrubbing the dead skin away," Montreuil continued in the same even tone, explaining to both Paol and Foucheaux at once. "To stop the infection. And no, no more laudanum."

With a nod to Foucheaux, Montreuil set to work once more. Paol stiffened and shrank against his friend, but the worst was behind them, and Montreuil made short work of the rest.

Straightening, the surgeon let out a slow breath, discarding the pad with no little relief. "That, I think," he muttered, "Is quite enough of that."

Glancing over his shoulder, he called, "Some wine, Señorita. For both of them."

The young woman blinked at the surgeon, almost too shaken to understand.  But her aunt patted her arm and gently pulled her away.  "Come on, my Manuelita.  I will help you."  And together they went away downstairs.

Foucheaux collapsed back into his chair and stared at the ceiling a moment before speaking.  "How you doing, Paol?  You're gonna be fine now."  The room suddenly felt insufferably hot, and he stripped out of his coat and waistcoat.

Paol had curled onto his side, shivering, his eyes tightly shut. He did not seem to hear Foucheaux, or even to be aware of Montreuil as he re-bandaged his arm.

"He is going to be all right, isn't he?" Foucheaux asked the surgeon.

Montreuil finished tying off the bandage before answering, his manner cold once more. "I am not clairvoyant, Monsieur Foucheaux, nor do I make a habit of indulging in useless speculation. He may heal or he may not. Time will tell."

The old woman and the girl returned with three cups and a bottle of wine which they set on a little table and poured.  Foucheaux watched them stupidly, still thinking of the surgeon's pronouncement, though he spoke an automatic thank you as the old woman handed him his cup of wine.  He did not drink it immediately, but he stared at Paol while the girl hovered anxiously by his bed, apparently wondering what to do with his cup of wine.  The old woman handed one to the surgeon as well.

"When will you know?" Foucheaux asked.

Montreuil thanked the old woman and carefully set his own cup on the ground. "Sit up, Monsieur," the surgeon told Kerjean, reaching an arm around to his uninjured shoulder to help him. Kerjean seemed to obey purely out of habit, his gaze dull and unfocused, pulling his good arm under him to prop himself up. His eyes slipped closed and he blinked them open, half open, as if the lids were too heavy to raise any farther.

The surgeon nodded to the girl, then picked up his own glass and, recalling Foucheaux's unanswered question, replied, "In a few days I should have a better idea."

"Paolo, do you want some wine?"  Manuela asked softly. She hestitated, a bit shy to perform so intimate an action as helping him to drink while others watched.  

Her aunt observed her confusion and stepped in, taking the glass and holding it to his mouth.  She had nursed enough sick children in her time to be accustomed to the task.  "Here, soldier, drink this good wine.  It will make you feel better."  Of course, he would not understand her words, so she added more simply, "Good wine."

Paol drank as he'd been told, slowly draining the cup before sagging back onto the pillow. His lips moved to form some thanks, but no sound passed them. He was already half asleep and in another moment he had slipped into unconsciousness.

Montreuil watched him for several long moments, finishing his wine, then gathering up the shirt and soiled bandages as well as his bag, he got to his feet. "I will return later to check on him. If his condition worsens, you may send for me at the hospital. Señora," he continued, switching to Spanish, "I will be back this evening. Good day."

Foucheaux let out a sigh. "Thank you sir. What are you gonna do with his shirt? He'll want that."

Montreuil considered pointing out that 'shirt' was an exceedingly generous term for the garment in question, but he simply cast Foucheaux an annoyed glance, and continued on his way.

Foucheaux was too drained to press the matter. He slumped back in his chair, but then he remembered the other charge in his care. "Oh, sir, do you wanna look at Charcot? He was a prisoner too. He's gone blind."

"Very well," Montreuil agreed with his customary ill grace, "Where is he?"

Foucheaux pushed himself out of his chair. "I'll show you." By now the women had gone, which was a relief. He walked as quietly as he could the short distance down the passage to Charcot's room and tapped on the door. "He's probably still sleeping," he told the surgeon, and this hypothesis was proved correct when he opened the door.

Montreuil approached the bed, but there were no bandages to suggest an injury to the head, nor any obvious signs of trauma. "I'll look in on him later," he told Foucheaux, returning to the door. "They should both be left to sleep for now."

"All right."  Again, Foucheaux looked longingly at the empty bed, but perhaps he would be able to take it tonight.  If Pelletier hadn't already staked a claim.  But for now, he ought to keep watch over Paol.  "What should I do when Paol wakes up?  If it's before you come back. Should he eat?"

"He should drink. And he could take some broth or fruit. But he ought to sleep as much as possible." The telltale shadows around his eyes suggested a severe lack of just that.

Foucheaux nodded and returned to the other room, his heart scarcely comforted. He was glad to find that the women had left the wine bottle. There was only enough left for one more glass, but he needed it.