5th August, evening - Casa Augustin

Manuela stared at the scene, riveted to the spot until the cup exploded in the doorway. She ducked, even though she was not near enough to be in any danger. And then Paolo simply walked away. He looked ill. And poor thing, it was no wonder. He had just been told that his hope for freedom was gone, and he had gotten into a shouting match with an officer, and of course he was still suffering from that fever. She reached out and lightly grabbed his arm as he walked past her- his left arm. She quickly withdrew her hand as she realized it was his inured arm.

"Paolo," she said gently. "Are you all right?"

The carpenter slammed the officer's door shut and quickly ascertained that his daughters were not injured. Then he turned and stared at the French soldier in bewilderment.

He pulled sharply away, stumbling against the wall. It was Manuela. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time; her lovely, gentle face. She had said something -- a questions? -- and he nodded jerkily. It hardly mattered what the answer was. They weren't coming.

They weren't coming. He tightened his fists, trying to still his hands -- he was shaking all over -- and hearing a rustle looked down. There was a piece of paper in his hand. A letter. Charcot's letter. He sagged against the wall, his gaze fixed on the dark, scrawling marks. The news would kill Charcot.

He looked up suddenly at Manuela, a soft, gasping laugh escaping him. "Didn't I tell you things would be alright?"

"He's sick," Manuela explained anxiously to the carpenter.  "He has fever.  Will you help me get him back home?"

At that news, Don Augustin frowned in compassionate concern.  He himself had only just recovered from fever, and this poor wretch had also just been given some devastating news and had been attacked by that bastard officer.  Augustin was not sure, but he suspected it may have had something to do with one or more of the young girls, in which case he was grateful to the soldier.  And besides, anyone who stood against Tibodo was a good sort of person in his estimation.

"Come, young man.  Downstairs.  Maria, he needs some wine, and Martita, you go and get one of those rags and get it wet.  Put it in a bowl so it doesn't drip everywhere," he added.  "It's all right, lad.  It's all right."

Manuela wondered if he would be able to walk.  He seemed to be so weak.  Was he dizzy?  She had no idea how to ask, and now was not the time to play-act the word by spinning around in circles.  Instead she stood on his right side and linked her arm through his, just in case he needed the support.  "Come on, Paolo."

Why were they all looking at him like that? Even the carpenter's expression had softened. He wondered vaguely if his fever had spiked and he was hallucinating. Words whirled around him, dizzying and meaningless, but kind. And then Manuela took his arm and he knew he had to be delirious.

He let her lead him downstairs, moving as though in a dream, grateful for the steadying pressure of her arm against his. They reached the kitchen somehow and there was a chair and he collapsed into it. Charcot's letter was still clutched in his hand and he fumbled with it, his still trembling fingers folding it clumsily and pressing it into his pocket.

Then he looked up, his mind clearing just enough for confusion to set in. This wasn't Manuela's kitchen. What was he doing here? He couldn't just sit down in their kitchen. What the devil was he thinking?

He tried to rise, but hand on his shoulder pressed him back down.

"No no, you're all right. Drink this, there's a good lad." The carpenter pressed the wine cup into his hand. He began asking Manuela questions on the nature of his illness, but she scarcely knew anything. She let out a shaky sigh and sat down next to him.

"He's really very good for a Frenchman. Isn't he, Martita? Isn't he a pretty good Frenchman? Can't we send for the surgeon or something?"

Martita nodded, watching them both intently, the bowl with the rag cupped in her small hands.

"Maybe we could ask if Señor Boothby's doctor could look at him?" suggested Maria, then frowned at the darkness outside their windows, "But I do not think he will come again before morning."

He swallowed the wine gratefully, shutting his eyes. He could hear Manuela's voice and tried to focus on that. Not the words, just the familiar sound of it. She sounded worried, tired. That was his fault. She shouldn't worry about him.

He opened his eyes, dragging in a steadying breath. This seemed to be the cue for which Martita had been waiting, for she stepped forward then and presented the small bowl to him. He took it, murmuring some form of thanks, but he seemed completely bewildered by it. Martita watched him expectantly.

"Thank you, Martita," the carpenter said.  He took the bowl from the soldier's hands and set it on the table, then wrung out the rag and placed it against the soldier's forehead, watching him closely.  "How does that feel?  Better?"  Later it would probably be torment to have a wet rag touching his skin, but at this early stage it was probably a comfort.  "Here, you can do it.  Martita, go and get him a cup of water too."

He sat down in another chair.  "I'll go and ask tomorrow before mass.  Or no, Maria, go next door and tell them to send the doctor over to the Castillos' if he comes tomorrow.  I'm going to help Manuela walk him back home, when he's ready."

"How are you doing, Paolo?" Manuela asked him softly. "Feeling any better?"

He flinched at the sudden presence of a hand near his head, then went still. It was just the damp rag, then the firm, gentle pressure of the carpenter's hand. He nodded in response to the man's question, not trusting his voice to reach beyond the sudden constriction in his throat. But the cloth felt blessedly cool against his forehead and he cupped his hand against it.

He was starting to feel the effects of the wine, or maybe it was simply exhaustion, but the hammering in his chest had begun to slow and he was no longer shaking so badly. "Mejor, si," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

She smiled sweetly, relieved, and took his other hand in her own. "Oh, his hand is so hot!" She looked at the carpenter. "Will he get better, like you? My Tia Carla thought it might be his arm, but he wouldn't let her look at it. I think it was burned."

The carpenter shrugged. "I'm sure he'll be fine once the doctor comes to see him. Is he taking that laudanum?"

"Oh! I don't know. Paolo, are you taking laudanum?"

Manuela's small hand held his and he squeezed it gently, and that was better than any wine.

He felt as though he could have sat like that forever, but she was asking him a question now. Laudanum? He drew his other hand away from his forehead and glanced down at his waistcoat pocket. "Laudanum? Yes, I have it?"

Martita returned with the cup of water. "If the army doesn't come back, that means you can stay here," she told him brightly, hoping to cheer him up.

Manuela smiled at Martita.  "That's right, little monkey.  You can stay here with us, Paolo, for a little while.  And not say goodbye so soon, to me and Martita."  She looked down at the pocket he had glanced at.  "Do you have your laudanum in there?  Should he take some now?" she asked the carpenter.

"Better wait till he gets back to your house.  We don't want him falling asleep in the yard.  Paolo...  Portuguese name?  Italian?"

He tried to smile at Martita but he could not understand what either of them were talking about. Adiós. He recognized that word. Goodbye... The despair which panic and now their inexplicable kindness had helped keep at arm's length pressed closer suddenly. There would be all sorts of goodbyes very soon. Sooner than they imagined.

He looked up at the carpenter, suddenly grateful for the question. "Brezhoneg," he said softly, "Paol."

The carpenter looked at him with blank incomprehension, but he shrugged amiably. It was not really important, but he was glad to hear it wasn't France. At least it didn't sound French. "Paol," he repeated with a nod. "What do you do at home, in... Bresonay? Are you a... farmer? Carpenter, like me? Fisherman, blacksmith?"

He thought he recognized the word for carpenter. And...fisherman? Was he asking what he'd done before the war? "My family were farmers. Like, ah... planting? Growing? Working the land?"

"Farmer," the carpenter repeated, nodding approvingly. And now the soldier seemed to be somewhat recovered from his shock or dizzy spell or whatever it had been. He was probably steady enough to walk back to the Castillo house by now. "Let's take him to your house now, Manuelita. Is Carla home?" Manuela nodded. "I'll explain to her." He rose from the table. "Ready, soldier? We'll take you back to the Castillo house, and you can sleep."

Paol watched the carpenter get to his feet, a sick, cold sense of dread which even the wine could not warm settling in his stomach. But he couldn't put off facing this any longer; they'd shielded him from it for a little and that was perhaps the kindest thing they could have done. Bracing his hand against the chair, he pushed upright. He felt dead weary and not quite steady, almost drunk. Steady enough to walk, though.

"Gracias, señor," he said, his expression gravely earnest.

Manuela took his arm again. "Come on. Back to my house. You can sleep. Sleep? You can sleep in Pablito's bed, and have a room to yourself, alone, to sleep quiet. It will be all right."

He looked down at her as she led him towards the door. Sleep? It was the only word he understood and she seemed to keep repeating it like some kind of spell. He smiled faintly despite himself and wished to Christ it was that simple.

It was still warm in the courtyard, but comfortable and dark and full of the sounds of running water and night insects. He glanced up at patch of deeper shadow where the window of their little room was. His mind was starting to spin, trying to rationalize some sort of answer, a plan, something. He couldn't go back up there empty handed.

It was only a short distance across, and all too soon they were stepping through the door into the shadowy interior of the house.

"Do you have the bottle of laudanum, son?" the carpenter asked.  "Laudanum.  Manuela, get him a cup of water and we'll put just a couple of drops in, and he can drink it when he gets upstairs.  Is Pablito's room the one on the end?"

"There you are!" Doña Castillo cried.  "I didn't know what had become of you!"  She was about to exclaim some more, but Augustin pulled her aside to explain the situation quietly, very quietly, as if the Frenchman were already asleep.

"Come on, Paolo," Manuela whispered.  "Paol.  Upstairs.  Then Don Augustin will give you your laudanum and you can go to sleep in Pablito's bed."

"Wait. Please!" He whispered urgently. They were nearly to the top of the stairs and he balked. He still only had half an idea and it was dubious at best. The hospital was their only chance, the only place which might be safe, the only place where there might be people who could help Charcot. But he did not know where it was or even how to ask as much. It might be possible to ask very general questions, direction, distance, but what if he couldn't find it? What if he got them lost?

He looked anxiously at Manuela, but he had to try and he was about to ask when something else occurred to him. A word which had kept repeating in her conversations with the carpenter. "Manuela, y-you kept speaking of-- of a doctor. Is he--is he coming here? Aqui? A doctor from the hospital?"

She looked at him with concern.  "A doctor, yes.  Tomorrow.  You go to sleep, and tomorrow morning Don Augustin or Maria will bring the doctor."  Was he feeling worse and needed immediate help?  Perhaps the walk and the shocking news had all been too much for him. "Do you want me to go and find him now, tonight?  Or Don Augustin can go for him?"

"No. No, not tonight," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I'm alright. I just..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping unconsciously to dart back and forth. His thoughts were racing. A doctor. From the hospital. He could take them there. Or send someone to bring them. He might even speak French. And Spanish. And he could explain everything. And... And that made sense. It made sense, didn't it? That would work?

It would have to. He looked up towards where the door to their room was, then back at her. "I should talk to Dominic."

"Are you sure? You don't need the doctor tonight?" But now he wanted to go and talk to his friends. Or perhaps to go into his room to sleep. "Come, this way." She opened the door at the end of the hall, the room that the riflemen had been given when the French had taken over Señor Kaufmann's room. "You can sleep in here. It's quiet and... better."

In there? He could sleep in there? In the bed? He stared at her with a mix of wonder and bewilderment. Then regret. He began fumbling with his pocket, pulling out the letter as if that explained everything. "Dominic. I have to give it back." He had to do a good deal more than that, but he had no hope of explaining it.