30 July, Une maison renfoncée

"Who is he?" Todd asked, frowning slightly. He had not till now been aware of a blind prisoner.

"Charcot. Dominic. With -- beside Alain. With the--the--" Christ, what was the word? "Bandage hangin' around his neck."

Todd looked over his shoulder and saw the man Paol described. "Very well. I'll have a look at him. Go to sleep, now."

That would be alright, wouldn't it? Jacques would make sure Charcot was alright.

Without meaning to, Paol found himself slumped back against the stall. He wanted so badly to sleep, to let someone else take responsibility for even a little while. Just a little while...

Good lad. Todd waited a second or two until he was satisfied that Paol was well on his way to sleep. Then he hefted up his bag and nodded at the two privates who were still standing nearby.

"Right, lads," he said. "On we go. Do either of you know how to dress minor wounds?"

The wide-eyed young Guardsman shook his head wordlessly, no doubt bewildered at being asked such a question.

Many of the sounds in the barn had faded to a lull by now, and Charcot began to realize that he could no longer hear Roux or Kerjean. He spoke their names quietly to avoid drawing undue attention to himself, but they didn't answer. What if they had been injured, and it was so severe that they had died? He hadn't been paying attention. What had they said? He had been so afraid for his life that he had paid no attention to anything else. But even if they were dead, there were other French voices nearby. Where was that man he had talked to before?

"Père Duval?" he called tentatively, anxiety causing his voice to waver. No, not Père Duval. That was the name of a priest back at home. What was he? Sergent Duval?

Someone nudged Duval out of the half doze he'd fallen into, and at his grumbled query indicated the blind lad. Duval sighed, but after a moment struggled stiffly to his feet.

"You alright, son?" he asked as he drew nearer, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing any of the others.

"Père Duval? I mean... Sergent Duval? Is that you?" He spoke in a whisper now, though he could not have said why. "I don't know what happened to my friends."

His knees protested angrily as he stooped into a crouch. "Well, the red haired one is right there beside you. And the other one--" he frowned and, glancing around, caught sight of the dark one -- Ker...something -- slumped against one of the stalls a short distance away. "He's right over there. Close by," he amended as it dawned on him that the first statement would be completely meaningless to the boy. "Asleep. Looks like the sawbones has had a go at him."

"Not dead?" he asked anxiously. "What did the sawbones do to them?" He immediately pictured his friends with amputated limbs. Arms or legs? Why hadn't he been paying attention? How had he missed it all? Had he been unconscious? "Are we still in the barn?"

"No, not dead," Duval replied, gently matter-of-fact. "Looks like he just patched them up. They'll be fine." The last remark was pure speculation, but doubt would serve little purpose at the moment.

"Aye, still in the barn. Or whatever the hell it is." Barn seemed a rather generous term, given its condition.

Charcot nodded and hugged his knees a little tighter. "Père Duval - I mean Sergent?"

A faint, slightly rueful smile tugged at Duval's mouth. "Aye?"

Charcot's face fell. "Oh. No. I was forgetting. It's a priest I would need, to hear my confession." He rubbed his brow as if thinking made his head ache.

There was a low, quiet rasp of a laugh from Duval. "Aye, that would be the way of it." After a pause he asked, "There some'at troublin' you?"

Charcot screwed his eyes closed. He had intended to ask Kerjean, but maybe this man would be better, someone who didn't know him so well. Someone who wasn't so gentle as Paol. His brow ached from frowning, his entire face ached from crying, and he was exhausted. "Sergent," he finally whispered, "Will you kill me?"

Duval's brows quirked ever so slightly. "No one's killing anyone, son." His tone was gentle, but with a vein of finality running through it. "What's this about?" He could guess easily enough, but it seemed as good a place to start as any.

"And then what? What about your mates, eh? Fine thing to leave 'em in this mess," he remarked mildly.

Charcot frowned, bewildered by the comment. "I can't do anything to help them," he protested. It was not the argument he had expected.

"That rather depends on the problem, don't it?" Duval pointed out, then, almost abruptly, "Your mate – the tall one. What's his name?"

"That's Paol Kerjean," he answered almost reluctantly. Why was the man changing the subject? "Please, sergent! I can't do it myself - it's a mortal sin. But killing someone else, that can be confessed and forgiven."

"By God?" Duval shrugged. "Perhaps. Man, on the other hand... You really think your mate -- Paul -- is going to forgive himself if he wakes up and finds you dead?"

"Forgive himself?" Charcot repeated, wiping away angry tears.

"Aye," he said simply. Poor lad.