On Parole in Lisbon

"I thought the revolution in France was the answer, and I saw what happened. I thought our society in Ireland was the answer, and I saw what happened. Not all of us become old, but all are young. But in this I am certain that I am right as to Bonparte, or I should never risk that pain again. Even with all-" He looked at his hand, laid across des Sablières', as he had laid it across Carneiro's as he promised to help her escape, his scarred, twisted, nailless hand, and his hand swam in front of his eyes.

"My father could perhaps have accepted the Revolution, but not what followed, and he thought Bonaparte was the answer, and I agreed. He saw the truth before I did, but ... but I think not as clearly. Pray God he does not." Raoul's eyes cleared and he saw what Maturin was looking at - his hand, the fingers distorted, without nails... He had seen it before, without really looking at it: Maturin did not make a display of it. But now he understood, and felt sick. His hand reached out, and touched the scarred hand gently.

Stephen had not been expecting des Sablières' touch, and his hand twitched, but he swallowed, blinked, and held out his hand for des Sablières to examine, if he wished to do so. Even if he knew that it was the right thing, he felt sick with sorrow to see the poor young man's face, and he wished he could withdraw his hand, and leave the captain some shred of innocence. But it was too late for that, and his fingers trembled.

Raoul took the hand that was offered to him, not to examine it closely - it was obvious without scrutiny that the tips had been mangled, the nails... But Maturin had surrendered it to him in a gesture of trust, and as a final argument. "That is barbaric," he said, his voice catching. "Medieval. We call ourselves a civilized nation -." Then, because now, he had to know, he asked, in a harsh whisper: "This - and what else? What did they - what did we do to you?"

"I do not-" He looked up, saw des Sablières' face, and swallowed again. "What one might expect, to begin with," he said, his voice rough. "Then the hands: pincers, as you can see, and thumbscrews. The water torture, as is traditional. And the rack. Dutourd was clever, subtle; he understood the power of conjunction, the panic of being overwhelmed. Icy water one moment, and a hot poker the next. The rack was the worst, viewing it objectively, but the hands took the longest-"

"No!" Raoul covered the maimed hand with his own, his head bowed over them. "I am sorry! I should not have ... I should not have asked. I ... Yet you do not hate. Or only him." A tear fell onto the back of his hand, but he did not move, only saying. "How can you not hate me with them? I would have let them have you, not knowing... "

Stephen's eyes grew hot, and he gripped the man's hand, so longing in his loneliness for any offered contact. "And that is why I do not hate you. All those who did this to me are dead, dead the night of my rescue. I hate Bonaparte, and I hate his officials, and I hate his intelligence agencies most of all, but how could I hate you, my capitaine, for not knowing? Ignorance is not the greatest crime here, and now that you know, I trust that you will act well on that knowledge. I have enough enemies, so many enemies - how could I hate a man that would weep at my pain?"

Act well on that knowledge, Raoul thought. He did not release Maturin's hand, not attempt to release his own, but screwed his eyes tight, to prevent further revealing tears. He drew a deep breath, and said: "You could not exchange me, I see that, not because you do not trust me, but because you know I would not withstand that."

"You worry that they might torture you? It would be harder with a Frenchman, but not impossible, if they were to fabricate some evidence... No, for the moment, you are safer with us." Stephen shook his head. "That was the worst of it, you know. The nation I love most, of all the world. Or is that what you speak of? The knowledge that the country you love..."

"Do you think that my being a Frenchman would save me? But it would be easy for them to show that I am no true Frenchman, if that was what they want." He drew another breath, and said, softly: "That the country that I was learning to love, should be... " He blinked again. "It was not even a dream, to go back to France, while we were at war. Just a fact that made me not quite at home."

"Capitaine..." Stephen pulled his hand away, and clenched it in a fist. "Should you return to France, and should it ever come to torture, I release you from your promise. Please."

Raoul studied his own hands, stretching out the fingers. "By then," he said, "it would be too late, I think. But I thank you, and..." He shook his head, and lifted his eyes from his hands to Dr Maturin's face.

"You were already unwell when we met, and this has not helped." Despite everything, he managed a faint smile. "Is there anything I can do, now that we understand each other. Even if only to ask Mr Dawson if he has anything you can eat - for I am sure you have not eaten yet."

The thought of food made Stephen turn pale again. "I am not hungry, thank you. And I ought to return to Captain Padstowe, to see how he fares. He does not eat enough."

"Nor do you. And Captain Padstowe has Mr Whiting and orderlies to provide him with food - when I left him, he did not seem to be starving. He cannot require your attendance as well."

Maturin's pallor was disturbing, whether attributable to physical or mental causes. Raoul made another attempt. "You have enemies - is it wise to give them the chance to attack you, in the dark on a deserted road?" And what of the man who followed me? he thought. What if he transferred his attention to the man who threatened him with a pistol, who called upon him to stop in French? "Can you not stay here until morning?"

"I thank you for the offer, Capitaine, but I cannot. I promised that I would look after Captain Padstowe, and he does not know where I am - if I do not return tonight, he might worry. I have so much to do, and so little time - I really must return to Belem tonight."

Raoul stood up. "We have had this argument before, doctor, and I always lose. But I would be grieved if anything were to happen to you. Anything more. Take care. The streets are not safe, as you know."

"I will be fine, so," Stephen said with an attempt at a smile. "I have my pistol, and I know the way from here to the Headquarters." He picked up his glass of water and drained it. "Thank you for seeing Captain Padstowe today, and for bringing him the books."

Raoul shrugged. "It was nothing - although not without embarrassment. He does not quite trust me, naturally enough. He welcomed me only as a diversion, and I think that he will be more interested in news of your doings - whatever they are," he added hastily.

Oh, Christ alive, he had promised to tell Padstowe what had happened- Stephen had been pushing himself up from his chair, but sat down again at the thought. He would just have to break his promise; he was in no fit state to repeat that conversation, full of broken promises of protection, or to describe the scene in that house. He had to think it through first, or to push it entirely from his mind, or to drown it in laudanum. That poor girl; her poor child; and him, who had told her that she would be safe. He should be on the road out of Lisbon with her now, not sitting here in this comfortable room while des Sablières looked on in concern, himself sitting in the chair staring into nothing - he had to stand up, now, and smile as though nothing was wrong. The rictus he showed des Sablières was ghastly.

Dr Maturin's collapse back onto the chair, and the expression on his face, chilled Raoul. "I cannot let you go - not alone, not like this," he said. "Send a messenger to Captain Padstowe - I will take a message to the Headquarters if you like, but you must rest. Or at least," he added, "take someone with you, in case..."

Stephen looked up at des Sablières - the captain's mouth was moving, but he could hear nothing apart from a dull roar. He frowned, staring, as the roar became deafening and then waned, interlacing with des Sablières' voice. "...must rest. Or at least take someone with you, in case..."

"I cannot rest - there is no time."

"Captain Padstowe does not need you so urgently that you should kill yourself trying. Rest for a few minutes at least." Raoul made up his mnd. If the doctor was determined - and he could be very stubborn - then he would at least see him to the Headquarters. If he did not collapse on the way, which seemed increasingly likely. And if he did, someone should be there, and the only volunteer for that was himself.

It was not rest he needed; it was laudanum. A prodigious dose of laudanum, and several hours of unconsciousness, with no dreams, no images flashing in front of his eyes, no blood stains painted on the inside of his eyelids. But he could not say that to des Sablières. "It is just my head. I will take a minute."

Raoul's frown deepened. This was not just tiredness, but he lacked the skill to diagnose it, or the authority to insist on the doctor's remaining if he wished to go. He walked round and laid a hand for a moment on Maturin's shoulder. Rest for that minute. I will be outside." Perhaps the minute would stretch, if he were left alone in the quiet. He left the door slightly ajar, so it would not wake the doctor when he returned, and ran lightly upstairs to fetch his sword and a cloak. It was, he thought, a pity that Captain Padstowe had not also returned his pistols, but he was not to have known that Raoul would need them only to protect his friend Maturin.

As soon as des Sablières had left, Stephen folded his arms on the table and put his head down, blocking as much light as he could from his eyes. He squeezed them shut, and again the images, the bodies- He needed to think of something, anything, anything that wasn't Carneiro or Pereira or Padstowe or des Sablières or Mahon or Bonaparte or the pain in his head. He was entirely still, but the world was spinning. The First Joyful Mystery; the Annunciation. Ave Maria, he thought, gratia plena, dominus tecum. Benedicta tu...