7th August, morning - Rejoindre mon camarade

Leveque hovered in helpless concern on the outskirts of the small drama. He was an officer, he was supposed to take charge of these things, but he had no idea what was happening, let alone what to do about it. He started forward once to help Foucheaux with the injured fellow, but checked when he saw the bandages around his other arm.

Finally, deciding that the other soldier and the girl had things well enough in hand, he turned instead to Madame Castillo, questioning her as delicately as he could on what she knew of the man's condition and circumstance, as well as the address of the house, for it seemed clear they were going to have to send for a surgeon.

It was like the sort of dream where one kept struggling forward without ever going anywhere; the stairs seemed to go on forever. Paol dragged one foot -- heavy and clumsy, almost numb -- up another step, felt it brush the edge and with pathetic desperation tried to brace it there, only to slip, hard and jarring back onto the step below and only Foucheaux's grip round his waist kept him from falling.

Manuela seemed to float somewhere ahead of them, her voice drifting back as if from far away. One step, then another, but they were still no closer to the top. He shut his eyes. 'Nearly there...' Foucheaux's voice sounded almost like Maugan's, or maybe he was imagining it. He stumbled against a riser and hauled his foot up once more. He tried to reach up to brush the graze on his head – it must be worse than he thought for it to hurt this badly – but the knife sharp pain in his arm stopped him short. He must have fallen on it. Stupid. His sergeant was going to kill him.

He tripped again, but not against a riser, not against anything. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a wall, then as Foucheaux gently steered him, an open doorway. A weak, gasping curse escaped him; they'd reached the landing.

Manuela hurried ahead into the room and pulled back the covers, though they were still a wadded mess from the night before. She watched as the other soldier guided Paol to sit on the bed and to swing his legs up over the side so he could lie down.

"Is he hot or cold?" she asked the other soldier, but he just stared at her stupidly and shrugged. "Hot, or cold?" Well that was one question she could answer herself. She took his big hand in her own little one, and it was burning hot. "Poor Paol! I'll go and get some more water."

Manuela's voice came again from far away, but the next moment she was standing over him, her face bright and indistinct, almost otherworldly. Her hand, as she took his was cool and gentle, and he tried to hold on as she pulled away, but darkness was crowding again at the corners of his eyes and this time he did not try to fight it.

Manuela leaned over his face anxiously. Was he asleep already? He had fallen into it, slipped away so quickly!

She looked up fearfully to meet the eyes of the other French soldier. "Is he dead?"



"Dead? No. No, see, he's still breathing. He's sleeping." Foucheaux watched his friend's chest rise and fall a few times just to make sure, and then covered him with the blankets. "I'm gonna go and find a surgeon. You watch him?"

Manuela nodded and pulled a little wooden chair next to the bed, ready to watch her patient closely, and Foucheaux, after a final glance, hurried down the stairs.

Leveque looked up as Foucheaux appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "How is he?"

Foucheaux let out a shaky sigh. "I don't know, sir," he admitted, worry creasing his face. "He's so much worse than when I saw him earlier. Maybe it comes and goes. Or maybe he was just holding on." And now he was letting go? Foucheaux had thought that his friend was already dead. It would be too cruel an irony for him to die now. "Do you think Monsieur Montreuil will be heading to the hospital?"

Leveque frowned in concern. "I should think he would be there by now. I took the liberty of sending for him."

"Oh, thank you sir! He's a good friend to me, Soldat Kerjean. Have you sent for Pelletier too? Only Paol, that is Kerjean, wanted me to look for another friend of ours who's been staying here, but who went out and got lost on account of he's blind. And maybe Pelletier could look around for him too, and bring him if he's coming here." Did that even make sense?

"Blind? Good heavens..." Leveque's frown deepened at this revelation. "Does Pelletier know this friend of yours?'

"Oh.  I don't know actually.  Monsieur Jarreau knows him!"  But what use was that?  Jarreau was not coming to the house.  "I guess I better go and find him.  If you think the house will be safe?  Paol seemed awful concerned about the house, the women being safe."

"I will remain here for the time being," he conceded with a faint smile, "And I can send word to Lieutenant Jarreau as well. You said the man's name was Kerjean? And the blind one, what is his name? Is he from your company as well?"

"Thank you sir.  Yes, his name's Kerjean, and the blind one's named Charcot, Soldat Dominic Charcot.  He's young.  The lieutenant knows him real well."  The two phrases went together, along with many pranks and minor infractions.

"Soldats Charcot and Kerjean... Very well. I'll inform him. Good luck, Soldat."

"Thank you sir," Foucheaux said yet again. He retrieved his bayonet and hurried out the door, heading the direction where Paol had seen Charcot last.