7th August, morning - Rejoindre mon camarade

"No, you don't understand," Paol protested, pushing past him and starting up the street the way Charcot and Bright had gone. "He's blind. And they don't care, they're not afraid, they attacked the greenjackets just to get to us. They--" He stumbled to a halt, the futility of what he was attempting slowly registering. It didn't matter what was around the corner, because Charcot was not going to be there. If he had been close by, he would have been back by now.

Images of the fight with the mob crowded unbidden into his head: the terror on the prisoner's face as the Spanish had dragged him free of the others, his desperate, struggling form disappearing among the darkened houses, then later the splash of blood on his face, the feel of dead, mangled flesh in his hand, and the next morning, the head, its savaged face barely recognizable as human on the ground outside the barn's door.

Paol doubled over suddenly, retching, the wine he had just drunk staining the stones at his feet red. Holy Mother, what had he done? He could see Charcot wandering lost, his smile joyful and trusting, then uncertain, then erased in an instant by terror as hands which were neither guiding nor friendly took hold of him.

He looked up at Foucheaux, his expression lost and hopeless. "We were so close."

Foucheaux muttered a few curses and knelt down next to his friend, next to his vomit in the street.  "I know," he answered, though of course he didn't know.  "But the town's full of our lads.  They'll look after him.  No one's gonna hurt him today."  Charcot was blind?  Poor wretch!  "He can still walk and talk?  Anyone who finds him will take him straight to our camp.  He's probably sharing drinks with Couture and Rosy right now, with Montreuil giving them all a tongue-lashing. And you'll be there too, soon."

Paol stared at him uncomprehending. Rosy? But he was-- Of course. Rosy was dead, and Charcot was dead and soon Paol would be dead too. The thought was almost a relief.

"Not yet," he murmured, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Have to see them safe first. Promised Manuela..."

"All right," he said, somewhat relieved. "Let's get you back inside then. Is Manuela the girl? She'll be safe, and you and Charcot and everybody. Don't worry."

Hell. What had Kerjean been through? Foucheaux was willing to protect the women of this household for his friend's sake, but his view of the Spanish in general was not at all improved.

He began to steer him back to the house, and then the girl, who had been watching from the door, darted out to help him walk the last few feet. A couple of soldiers down the street whistled, but Foucheaux waved them away. "It's a French sick house. They have fever! Captain Berthillon has ordered this area to be cleared, except for volunteers to tend the sick." The soldiers did not seem inclined to volunteer, and they hurried away.

Out of nowhere Manuela was at his side and then the shadowy interior of the house enveloped them. After the almost unnatural brightness of the street, the darkness inside seemed impermeable; close and stifling hot like an oven.

He turned, trying to find Foucheaux among the shadowy forms. He was silhouetted in the doorway, the sharp contrast almost painful to look at. "You'll find Leveque?" he asked him, his voice hoarse and anxious. "You'll bring him here?"

"Yes, I'll find him quick as I can. Or Pelletier, right? Pelletier is probably out looking for lodgings anyway. And I'll tell the lads to keep an eye out for Charcot, all right? Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine now." He gave the girl a nervous nod. She seemed like she would look after Paol. The old woman started shouting for him to go away and shut the door, but he hesitated one more moment. "Here," he said, unbuckling one of his cross belts. "Take my bayonet. I'll be back soon."

Paol stared down at the bayonet in his hands and felt suddenly as though he could have broken down weeping. "I'm sorry, Marcel. I'm sorry, I don't know what-- Thank you. For everything, thank you."

"Don't be sorry. You're fine! Everything's fine." He patted him gently on the shoulder, and then embraced him again. "It's gonna be all right. And everyone's gonna be so glad to see you. Don't worry about a thing."

Paol sank down into the chair as the door closed, the crossbelts and bayonet clutched tightly in his hands. He sat there, rigid for a moment, then seemed to collapse in on himself, curling forward, his eyes shut. The tears slid down his cheeks, but he no longer cared who saw them. All he could feel was pain and horror and guilt and fear, and he no longer had the strength to pull himself together.

While her aunt was hurrying about to secure the back door, Manuela watched the Frenchman in helpless concern. He was crying! Maybe his friend had given him some bad news? Manuela could not help but begin to cry herself, though she wasn't sure why. She knelt down next to his chair and rubbed his shoulder. "Oh, don't cry, Paol! What's wrong? Should I get you some more wine? Is your friend going for a surgeon?"

Wine? Surgeon? He looked up and saw with sharp, helpless regret that he had upset her. "No, please, it's alright." Letting go of the bayonet's hilt, he fumbled for her hand. "Please just stay? Aqui?"

"I'll stay here," she answered, summoning a smile for him. She searched in the pocket of her apron for a handkerchief and handed it to him.

The street had grown quieter, and her aunt returned with a damp rag for Paol's forehead and the washing bat and axe for herself. She peered out the window and began attempting to repair the shutters, or at least pull them partially closed again.

"Cerezas," he murmured, taking the offered handkerchief and wiping at his face. Tears sprang afresh to roll down his cheeks, but more slowly this time; he was too weary for anything more, and physical pain was slowly beginning to numb everything else.

"Cherries?" she repeated, a sympathetic frown on her face. "We don't have any cherries. Do you want an orange?"

"Give him some grapes," Doña Castillo advised. "Do you want grapes? I'll get some. Manuela, if anyone comes to the window, you show them the axe. Or his bayonet."

"What? Naran...No. No, I don't w--" He looked blearily from her to the handkerchief -- it was dirty, he noticed with a dull sort of shame -- and held it out. "Cerezas, no?"

She looked at the handkerchief with confusion.  Was he remembering the stained one she had used the other day?  "No, sorry.  Maybe some grapes?  A cup of water?"

Doña Castillo had already returned with a handful of grapes for Paol and some for herself and Manuela.  "If we don't eat them now, the soldiers will take them."

"Gracias," he said softly, staring at the grapes in his hand a though not quite sure what to do with them. He ought to save some for Charcot, he thought out of habit, but that would make the old woman angry. Like when he'd tried to give him the orange juice. Only Charcot wasn't coming back, he remembered. She'd been right, he was stupid. Unforgivably stupid.

He bit off one of the grapes. His body rebelled against the idea of food, but he didn't know what else to do. At least it washed some of the taste of bile from his mouth. He managed to swallow another, then held them out to Manuela. It was past midday and he didn't think she'd had anything but coffee. "Here. You should eat. Please."

She smiled and accepted them, not quite knowing what else to do. But then there was a knock at the door that caused her heart to lurch. She looked doubtfully at Paol, not sure he would even be able to stand up and show himself at the window. She should have asked his friend what she should say.

"Go away! Fever!" her aunt called, gripping the axe handle.

There was a French voice on the other side of the door. "Paol, it's me, Foucheaux!"

He'd come back! Paol struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall as he made his way to the window. "Foucheaux?" he called, and looking out saw, not only his friend, but the lace trimmed uniform of an officer behind him. "Señora -- señora, aqui," he stammered, "He's brought an officer."

Manuela peeked out the window as well, pushing the broken shutters.  She could not tell if the soldier was the same one from before or not - they all looked the same with their uniforms - but Paol seemed to want the door open.

"Auntie, help me with the bar.  It's an officer, Paolo's good officer he told us about."  At least she hoped that was the case.  She looked at him nervously.  "Good officer?"

"Yes, it's me," Foucheaux called from the other side of the door. "And I've brought Monsieur Leveque."

"Si, bueno officer," he assured her, "It's going to be alright. Everything's going to be alright." He had said it so many times, to Charcot, to her, to himself, and he'd been wrong so many times, down to almost the very last moment, that he couldn't quite believe that this wasn't some delirium. But there was Foucheaux stepping through the door, and Leveque behind him. It was really happening. It was over.

He thought he would have felt lighter, but instead relief felt insupportably heavy, and it was all he could do to keep his knees from buckling under the weight. The shadows of the entryway seemed to press close around the edges of his vision and he blinked them back, still hanging on without quite knowing why.

*

Leveque followed the other soldier into the house. It was all a bit irregular; usually Pelletier sorted all this out for him, and Leveque felt not a little awkward, even with Soldat Foucheaux there. Still, manners were manners, and he offered the two women an uncertain smile. "Señora, señorita – Lieutenant René Leveque, at your service," he greeted them in Spanish, sketching a slight bow. "I was informed you might have rooms available?"

For a moment, both of the women just stared at him. Then the old woman said "This is not a hotel!"

"No, no, auntie! This is Paol's good officer! We need him to stay. It will be good!" Manuela then blushed, realizing that the man had probably understood everything she said. By now she was accustomed to speaking Spanish without Frenchmen understanding her.

The woman relented. "Yes, very well señor. Don Leveque. I am Doña Carla Castillo and this is my niece Manuela."

While these introductions were being made, Foucheaux approached Paol and took his uninjured arm. "C'mon, let's get you to bed. Where have you been sleeping?"

Good officer? Despite his amused curiosity, Leveque at least had the good grace to pretend he hadn't heard. Instead he inclined his head to the older woman, Doña Castillo. "Enchanted."

Paol looked up at the touch on his arm, his gaze unfocused, but Foucheaux might as well have been speaking gibberish. " 'm fine," he mutterd thickly, pulling away. "Have--have to..." Stay here. He had to stay here. He'd promised. But...but that was before. Now Leveque was here. He would protect them. And Perro would guard the door. Perro? Not Perro...but there was someone, something important he was forgetting. Martita's micking bark echoed inside his throbbing skull and he looked around sharply, disoriented, as if she might have suddenly appeared. Then Bright's sneering voice intruded into his thoughts, I thought you were his guard dog and all? Charcot. "Have to find Charcot."

He took a step back and fell hard against the wall, sliding down it to slump bewildered on the floor.

"Paolo!" Manuela cried, kneeling down beside him.  



Foucheaux also knelt at his side, taking hold of his good arm.  "Here, put your arm around me.  Up you get.  You need to sleep.  I'll find Charcot.  And Monsieur Leveque is here to keep the house safe, and I'll find Monsieur Montreuil, and everything will be fine.  Where can he sleep?  Bed, sleep?" he asked the girl.  She nodded and started to walk toward the stairs, looking over her shoulder to see if they were following.

"Laudanum, Paol," she suggested, suddenly remembering his little medicine bottle.  She would have to change the linens in Pablito's room if the officer was going to stay there, but then, would an officer really want to stay in the room where a soldier had slept with fever?  It ought to be aired properly, perhaps smoked out, before someone new slept there.  "Auntie, should Paol go in Pablito's room and the officer go in Tio Miguel's?"  After some grumbling, her aunt agreed to the arrangement.