7th August, evening - J'ai encore bien vu

Sitting and waiting quietly was not Foucheaux's greatest skill.  It was one thing to stand or march for hours with your musket at your shoulder and anticipation of action.  But sitting in a chair and staring at a sick, sleeping friend takes another kind of endurance altogether.  He paced the room many times.  Stared at the cross on the wall.  Looked out into the hallway at every approaching footstep.  Exchanged nods with Pelletier, Lieutenant Leveque, both of the women.  Peeked in at Charcot's door.  Sat in the chair by Paol's bed.  Sat on the floor.  Stood leaning against the wall.  

Staring out the window was the most distracting, and therefore the preferred recourse.  He could see the little courtyard where he had wandered (and even now, he still could not see a way out without going through one of the houses), and the house where he had encountered those officers, and at one point he caught sight of a pair of girls, but not even they could shake the fear that had settled in his mind.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and moments later Montreuil appeared at the door. He had come again straight from the hospital and there were traces of blood on his clothing. "Any change?" he asked without preamble.

Foucheaux let out a heavy sigh of relief. Even though he had not needed to do anything, he was glad that there was now someone more knowledgeable here to do anything that might need to be done. "No. He's been sleeping the whole time."

Montreuil nodded, but remained where he was as if trying to decide something. "Come with me for a moment." It was perhaps less than advisable for Kerjean to be left alone, but in his weakened state and with no delirium yet present, it was a risk Montreuil was willing to take. He was not sure what Charcot's state of mind was, but awakening blind to -- comparatively -- unfamiliar hands could result in excitement, of the detrimental variety.

Foucheaux followed him. "You gonna look in on Charcot? I think he's still asleep too. I been checking on him a bit too, but he's been asleep the whole time. The lads gave him quite a bit to drink. We'd all thought him and Paol were dead."

Montreuil chose not to comment on that last statement.

"If you would wake him," he said, stepping into the small room, "I suspect he will be more receptive to it at your hand."

Gently, gingerly, Foucheaux laid a hand on his friend's arm. "Charcot," he said softly, "Wake up." There was no response, so he shook his arm slightly. "C'mon, time to wake up, Charcot. Monsieur Montreuil's here to see you." This had the effect of making Charcot frown and roll over with a little whine and without opening his eyes. Foucheaux looked questioningly at the surgeon.

For the love of God! "Soldat Charcot!" Montreuil snapped, his voice low but sharp.

Foucheaux and Charcot both jumped then, and Charcot hastily sat up in bed. "Sir! Yes sir, sorry, here I am!" His hands were feeling about on the bed for something. His musket perhaps, or his lost shako, but he knew he was not presentable.



Foucheaux reached out and took his arm, which caused Charcot to startle. "It's all right, Charcot, it's me, Foucheaux, and Monsieur Montreuil."

Shaking his head, Montreuil approached the bed. "Monsieur Foucheaux informs me that you are unable to see. Is that correct?"

His heart was still racing from being wakened so abruptly, but he was beginning to grow calmer. Foucheaux and Montreuil were familiar, and anything familiar was welcome. "Yes sir. Oh Monsieur Montreuil, I'm so glad you're here." He smiled slightly, then started again, sitting up straight with a gasp. "Oh! Have you seen Paol? Kerjean? He's sick! He's had fever and his arm was burned!"

One corner of Montreuil's mouth twitched in rueful appreciation of the atypically positive reaction. But the amusement was momentary. "I have seen him, yes. He is resting now."

Setting down his bag, the surgeon bent over Charcot, passing his hand before his eyes several times. Interestingly, the boy appeared to blink reflexively when Montreuil's hand first passed close in front of him, but otherwise gave no indication that he was aware of the movement.

"I am going to place my hands on your head, to examine you," Montreuil continued, taking the boy's head in his hands. "Have you suffered any injury that you can recall, from the battle or since?"

"Um. Yes. Well, I don't know. I woke up after the battle - or maybe it was during the battle - with a horse on top of me, and I couldn't remember what happened, and I couldn't see or hear anything. It was on my legs though, the horse."

Could not see or hear? Montreuil's brows arched fractionally. That he could neither feel nor see anything on Charcot's head to suggest a sufficiently traumatic injury only added to the curiosity of the case.

"When and how did your hearing return?"

"It just sort of came back, all on its own. We got caught by some greenjackets, Paol and me - it was Paol who pulled the horse off of me - and while they were marching us along, I could hear again."

"Have you suffered from headaches at all since then?" He was beginning to suspect that however physical the symptoms, their cause was very much the opposite, but a far graver explanation suddenly presented itself and he added, "Do you know of anyone else suffering from similar complaints?"

"No, no headaches."  He gave a rueful laugh.  "Don't know anyone else with the same thing neither.  Wish I did!  Then maybe I'd know what it's all about. How's Paol?"

"Resting," Montreuil repeated, his frown deepening. "Monsieur Charcot..." Montreuil disliked admitting ignorance, particularly when it rendered him effectively useless, but as far as he was aware neither dishonesty nor prevarication possessed any curative properties, so there was nothing for it. "I can see no clear physical cause of your condition. I am sorry, but until and unless further symptoms develop, I can only advise rest in hopes that your blindness resolves itself as your hearing did."

"Rest? That's what the English surgeon said too." He sounded disappointed. "Though even that's easier said than done. We been worried sick we'd get our throats slit the minute we close our eyes."

"What were you expecting, mud and spit?" the surgeon retorted.

Preoccupied with his thoughts on the Spanish, Charcot missed the reference. "No. But they threw blood on us, and parts of a soldier they cut up."

"The Spanish soldiers?"

"Yeah. Or no, just some townspeople I think. I didn't see, because I couldn't see anything. I didn't even know till later. But Paol knew. Poor Paol."



Foucheaux muttered a curse under his breath.

"And the unfortunate soldier," he continued with a grim sort of calm, "Was he one of the prisoners?"

"Yeah.  They grabbed him right out of the group of us.  Like a hawk grabbing a chicken.  Even with the green jackets there.  They took him away and then came back later and threw parts of him at us.  Only I didn't know it.  Paol didn't tell me."