8 August; dans la plus haute chambre

It was towards evening when Maria Dolores slipped back across the courtyard to fetch Martita. When she poked her head into the kitchen, however, she saw her little sister still busily helping their neighbor. She did not have the heart to pull her away -- Martita was having a difficult enough time as it was these past few days -- and if she was honest, she had no particular wish to return home so soon, not with Tibodo nearly up and about, so after making sure that Martita was behaving herself, she slipped upstairs to find her friend. "Manuela?" she called quietly at the top of the stairs.

Manuela looked out from Pablito's room. "Maria!" she called quietly, smiling. "Are you looking for Martita? I think she's still in the kitchen with Tia Carla."

Maria smiled. "Yes, I've just come from there. Everything is still in one piece; your aunt must have a great deal of patience." She started to enter the room, but paused on the threshold, glancing uncertainly at the still figure in the bed. "Is it alright to come in?"

Manuela looked at the haggard sleeping soldier.  "Yes, I think it's all right.  He's barely stirred in hours.  Can you stay?"  In spite of having some fondness for the Frenchman and some worry for his health, she was growing weary and bored sitting by his side with only a basket of mending for company.

"of course," Maria replied, crossing the room to retrieve the other chair. A murmured exclamation escaped her as she passed the injured soldier. He looked truly terrible, much worse than he had several nights ago. Martita had declared him to be dying, but Maria had assumed she was exaggerating; now she was not so sure.

"Poor thing, have you been here all day?" she asked, dropping into the chair beside her friend.

"More or less. There's another soldier staying in the house who sat with him for a while." She sighed and leaned back in her own chair. "He was raving like he was crazy earlier. Or last night. Was your papa like that?"

She thought about this for a moment. "He would become confused sometimes... Once he thought I was my mother. But not raving. They should look after their own," she added with sudden vehemence, "You have done enough without looking after raving Frenchmen. He could be dangerous!"

She had not considered that possibility. "Dangerous? Oh. I suppose he could." She looked doubtfully at the unconscious man lying stretched out in the bed. "No, he's probably too weak to do anything. I suppose I could get the blind one - the one who was blind - to sit with him, but he cries every time he sees him. I've never seen a man cry so much. Maybe it's just that his eyes were hurt."

"Well, he wasn't crying outside," Maria replied, shaking her head. "The foolish thing wouldn't stop smiling. And I still say he should be the one looking after his friend, tears or no."

Manuela nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose so. But, when he has been awake, I've been able to calm him when his friends couldn't. Maybe it takes a woman to soothe a sick person."

Maria remembered the way he'd looked at her friend that night in their house and wondered if there was perhaps another explanation, but instead she smiled and said, "Or perhaps men are just hopeless at it."

Manuela grinned. "That too." Then she wrinkled her nose. "Is Don Tibodo getting better?"

Maria grimaced at the name. "Yes. He is demanding Papa make him crutches now." She shuddered. "Why couldn't he have fever? Though I suppose it wouldn't really make any difference, he's already raving."

Manuela stifled a laugh, trying to keep quiet for the sake of her patient. "Now there's a case where they should look after their own! Let them go and chop down the trees and find the wood themselves and make their own crutches! He'd better at least pay for them, if your papa does make them. They've promised to pay Tia Carla for the use of the house. Who else do you have?"

"That is good," she nodded. "We have a cavalry captain and his soldier servant as well now. He is not like Señor Tibodo, though... I do not think. He has a wife and child back home and he leaves us alone. And he has been patient with Martita." She shook her head suddenly. "I don't know what will become of her, she is far too bold with them! When she is not hiding behind my skirts. I don't even know when to worry!"

Manuela grimaced. That was probably her fault, at least partially. She had introduced Martita to Paol and had encouraged her to be friendly with him. She had only wanted the girl not to be afraid, but perhaps that had been a foolish idea. "But they haven't been unkind to her, have they?"

"No. Well, except for Tibodo, but I do not think he is kind to anyone. She seems to be quite fond of your two Frenchmen. The young blind one was playing with her outside earlier. I don't know," she finished with a weary sigh, "I am afraid she will forget that not all French soldiers are lame or friendly. And then something will happen and then she will never forget and I don't want that either. Sometimes I wish we could go away to the mountains like so many have. But then there would be no one to look after Papa."

"Or your house," Manuela reminded her. "Because your papa would have gone with you. They would have broken into your house and stolen all of your things, probably. They did that to Don Marcos' house, because he's gone away with his sister."

"Demons," Maria muttered, scowling at the still figure on the bed. The expression made her look very like her sister. "It is not enough that they have our city, our whole country, they must have our homes too!"

Being very slightly older, Manuela tried to think of something reassuring to say.  "Maybe they won't stay for long.  In town, I mean.  They'll have to march off and fight battles somewhere else sooner or later.  Sooner, I hope, for men like Tibodo." She followed her gaze to the unconscious soldier. "But this one hasn't stolen things, or the blind one, Domingo. At least I don't think so. Paolo helped to guard the house yesterday, even though he was ill, very ill."

Maria's expression softened, though a thoughtful frown lingered on her face. "Are you fond of him?" she asked after a moment.

"No!" Manuela scoffed with laughter, but she could feel her face flush warm. "I barely even know him. And he can't even speak to us or understand anything. He's French!"

Maria smiled, just a trace of teasing laughter behind her eyes. "Then you've no reason not to come with me to the market tomorrow."

Manuela's eyes widened slightly. "Just you and me? Is it safe? Or will your papa be coming?"

"I haven't asked yet," she admitted with a sigh. "But with two more mouths to feed we're nearly out of food. Someone's going to have to go. And I feel like I'll go mad if I stay cooped up much longer."