On Parole in Lisbon

Raoul drew a deep breath, and picked up the glass. He looked towards Stephen and gave a half smile. "Something a friend said to me once," he said, as if it were an explanation. "A friend who is now dead, so..."

He drank rather more deeply than he had intended.

"I am sorry," Stephen said, gently and sympathetically. He sipped from his own glass, then pushed it away, resting his chin on his hand.

Raoul returned the look, his own concerns responding to the doctor's sympathy. "Are you finished?" he asked, looking at the wreck of the loaf, and cheese. "More wine, perhaps, for a good night's sleep."

Stephen nodded carefully. He had eaten the ham, and most of the bread, but the headache was increasing - further wine would do it no good at all. "No wine, thank you. You finish it, if you will."

Raoul refilled the glass, and watched the wine run down the side as he tilted it. The bruises on his legs were stiffening - they would show tomorrow, he thought - but the bruises on his mind would not show, though they hit more deeply. He raised his eyes from the wine to the doctor's face. "Then go to bed," he said. "Even if you cannot sleep, lie down and rest. No one will disturb you here."

"What if they should decide to attack the house?" Stephen cocked his head to the side; des Sablières looked ten years older than he was. "Are you all right, Capitaine?"

Raoul frowned. "I would not think ... Fights, robberies - a knifing even - they might get away with, but an attack on the home of a respectable citizen..." They might not be prepared to mount a frontal attack, but any house was vulnerable to men who might break in. "Take your pistol - both your pistols," he smiled wearily. "We can... What else can we do?" And then the tiredness, emotional and physical hit him and he met the doctor's look with deep unhappiness in his eyes. "There is nothing new wrong with me, Dr Maturin, except that I am tired."

Stephen recognised the weariness on des Sablières' face as though he were looking into a mirror; he reached out and patted the man's wrist. "There is no remedy for that but sleep," he said softly. "You are right - both that we are probably safe for the night, and what can we do if we are not?"

"Yes." Raoul closed his eyes as Stephen touched him in reassurance. "If you are ready, I will show you the way." He hesitated and then drank the rest of the wine in his glass, before rising to his feet.

Stephen stood up with him - his vision went black and a buzzing like that of hornets filled his ears, but he caught himself on the table. "I am fine," he said automatically.

Raoul reached out a hand to steady him. "Bed," he said. "Sufficient unto the day, and this day has been sufficiently evil, do you not think?"

Stephen gripped des Sablières' hand, frowning at the table-top while his vision returned. "Just so... would you believe it is not the worst day I have had in the past week? But tomorrow, hopefully, tomorrow..."

"There have been some good parts," Raoul murmured. "And tomorrow - there must be hope for tomorrow."

"We must go to Santana's as soon as ever we can," Stephen said, daring to take his hand from the table. "Captain Padstowe will be worried, and we must decide where you are to stay until we leave..." He looked up at des Sablières with a tremulous smile. "You have had some good encounters? I am glad."

"Today? Only with you." Raoul blinked and said, to cover that "Although yesterday I dined with a surgeon from one of your Royal Navy ships - the man who had stitched my arm for me. Dr Crozier, of the Terpsichore"

Stephen reached up and put his hand to des Sablières' forehead. "And yet you are not feverish. Capitaine, two encounters: one an interrogation and one a fight for our lives, and they count among your 'good parts', forsooth. Poor dear."

"Yes," Raoul responded simply. "Not those parts, but the ... your understanding, your kindness to me. That counts as a 'good part', and it would not have happened but for the rest."

"Capitaine..." Stephen flushed a bright red, and looked at the stairs. "It is very kind of you to say such a thing." He cleared his throat. "A doctor, you say, from the Terpsichore? He must be new - I know of no naval physicians by the name of Crozier. It was very good of him to stitch up your arm though - and then dinner?"

"The sailors who rescued me took me to him, and he was most kind, to a man - a Frenchman - he had never met before. He even gave me some pencils, for sketching, you understand. English pencils are the best kind." Raoul reached out to touch Stephen's arm. "I receive unwarranted kindnesses, and I am grateful."

"That was very kind of him, to be sure," said Stephen, looking like he was concentrating on climbing the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. "I have met with a great deal of unexpected kindness in the navy - pencils, forsooth? I am glad, very glad indeed."

Raoul walked up beside Dr Maturin, aware of the effort that climbing the stairs gave, and ready to offer support if necessary. "I wonder why that is," he said as they reached the top of the stairs and he opened the door to the room. "Though I have known kind soldiers, too." He stepped aside to allow the doctor to enter.

"I have met kind soldiers, to be sure - thank you," said Stephen carefully as he stepped into the room, "but I was in Ireland - I do not trust the British army as a whole. The Navy made a place for me though that I could never have foreseen." He rubbed at his ear, exhausted. "You said there was a paillasse available..."

Raoul put the candle on the table and gestured towards the bed. "Please, I will sleep more easily knowing you are not on the floor - it would feel wrong to me, and I would not settle for fretting about it." Dawson had done as promised - two palliasses, and even a blanket and pillow. He crossed to draw the curtains across the window, standing for a moment looking out. "I know of Irishmen in our Army - but that there has been for centuries, and the Scots too."

"No, no, I cannot take your bed - never fret at all, for God's love. The Wild Geese, we call them in Ireland - my father was one, but in Spain, not France," Stephen said distractedly, moving towards the paillasses.

Raoul came back and sat on the edge of the bed. He was too tired to argue now, and recognized that Stephen would insist stubbornly on his right to sleep on the palliasses, and that unless he gave in neither of them would sleep at all. He yawned, leaning forward to remove his shoes. "It is strange that my father, a Catholic, should have fled to England for protection," he said quietly, "and found it there." He yawned again and said: "I am sorry, but if you are sure you will be comfortable..."