Nikita woke again while the doctor and Emil were stripping Michael out of his mission gear. Although his eyes remained closed, he winced when the soaked undershirt was pulled away, reopening half-clotted wounds in his side and lower back. The entry wound was only the size of a dime, but because the armor-piercing bullet had gone straight through, it left a much uglier exit wound. This was now bleeding profusely, soaking the sheets.
"Putain!" the doctor hissed. "Help me roll him over, Emil, so I can clamp this bleeding vessel."
The two men rolled him toward Nikita, who put her arms around him to hold him up against her. As the doctor probed for the source of the bleeding, Michael gasped and opened his eyes.
"Here, hold on to me, Michael," she whispered, "It'll be over in a minute." She gave him her hand to squeeze. He latched onto it like a lifeline. She welcomed the pain. The strength of his grip fueled her hope for his survival.
A moment later, the doctor found the source of the hemorrhage and the bleeding slowed, then stopped. He flushed both wounds with a sterile solution and packed the exit wound with gauze, leaving in a drainage tube as a precaution against infection. By the time he finished, Michael had fallen asleep. Then he turned to Nikita.
"He is stable now. So, let us see to your injuries, Madame . . . ?"
"Nikita," she replied.
"Well, Nikita, it appears as though you have taken quite a thorough beating. Did he do it?" Dr. Molbert gestured toward Michael.
It was suddenly clear to Nikita what Dr. Molbert was thinking. "No, doctor, he didn't beat me and I didn't shoot him. I can't tell you more than that, but Emil and Genevieve can vouch for the truth of what I say."
"She's right, Molbert," said Emil gruffly. The doctor nodded in acceptance. "Very well. Then let us just see what needs to be done to make you more comfortable, shall we?"
He examined her gently but thoroughly, then straightened up from the bed and pressed his hand into the small of his back. It was a strain to work on a low surface like that, rather than on the examining table in his office.
"You both need to be in a hospital, Nikita. You may have internal injuries, although if so, they appear to be minor. You do have several cracked ribs, as you can feel. I had to put quite a few stitches in your lip, and you have a lot of facial bruising."
He turned to Genevieve. "Keep cold packs her face to reduce the swelling and give her a hot water bottle or a heating pad for her middle. No aspirin, though, in case of internal bleeding. If she's thirsty, give her some ice chips to suck on until I get back."
"Where are you going, Molbert?" asked Emil.
"I am concerned about the amount of blood he has lost. I don't know how long it will take him to recover his strength without a transfusion. I can't get the blood without arousing suspicion at the hospital, but I can get plasma. That will be better than nothing. I'll be back with it as soon as I can, but it will probably take me at least an hour. While I'm gone, keep him warm. I don't want him going deeper into shock. Heat up some towels or a blanket in the oven. I've elevated his feet with pillows. Make sure he stays in that position, even if you have to sit on him. If he regains consciousness, give him as much water to drink as he'll take."
Nikita had been drifting toward sleep, but at the doctor's words of concern, she roused. She needed to tell him something that might be important to Michael's recovery.
"Doctor, he was very sick last night with a sinus infection, and I gave him three injections of a very powerful antibiotic -- the last one at 9:00 this morning."
"Can you remember the name of this antibiotic, Nikita?"
"It doesn't really have a name, just a number. It's experimental," she mumbled. "You couldn't reproduce it without very sophisticated equipment. But I can tell you it works very well. He's used it before. As far as I know, though, it was developed specifically for his sinus and ear infections. I don't know if it would work against any other kind of infection."
"Do you have any more of this antibiotic?"
"Yes, at our farm, about 10 kilometres from here. If he needs it, I can go get it."
"You won't be going anywhere, Nikita," said Emil. "I'll bring it here if we must."
"That may not be necessary," interjected Dr. Molbert. The wound is serious, but it is clean and gives no indication of infection. I'll put him on a wide-spectrum antibiotic, strictly as a precaution. Then we'll wait and see how he responds."
Reassured, Nikita finally allowed herself to give in to her exhaustion. Her eyes closed. A minute later she was deep asleep, her hand still resting in Michael's.
Dr. Molbert walked to the door, then turned to Emil and Genevieve. "Oh, and one more thing . . . . "He's lucky I didn't find the bullet in him, or I'd have had to report it to the Prefecture de Police. But since there's no actual physical evidence of what caused his wounds, I can stretch the point of law just a bit - but only for YOU, mes amis, comprenez-vous?" The Beaullieus nodded, satisfied.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"I put the towels and a blanket in the oven. But we need to clean them up and change the sheets before anything else," Genevieve instructed Emil as soon as Dr. Molbert had left. "He's bled all over them."
"Tu as raison - you're right, chere." Emil looked down at the grimy couple sprawled across the blood-and-water soaked sheets. "Let me get that old rubber sheet - the one we used when Albert was still wetting his bed. We can put it under them while we bathe them."
"Bonne idee," agreed Genevieve. "I'll get some hot water and soap. We need to hurry, though. I don't want him, especially, to catch a chill."
As they bathed the sleeping couple, the Beaullieus couldn't help but notice the collection of scars they sported - bullet wounds, knife wounds, even burns in some very interesting places - all neatly healed. It was obvious they had had excellent medical treatment, and equally obvious that they had needed it on a frequent basis. Emil and Genevieve could relate to their pain, but their own war had been so long ago, the psychological as well as the physical wounds had healed and been all but forgotten. Recent events had brought those memories to mind again. And seeing these two now, it was depressing to contemplate the violent life they must have been leading for God knows how long.
"Let us say a prayer for them, Emil," whispered Genevieve, taking her husband's hand in hers. "Holy Spirit, come down upon these two young people. Heal their wounds. Renew their strength. When they are in the desert, bring them the water of life and of hope. This we ask in Your name, and in the name of the Father and of the Son. Amen"
As Genevieve's prayer ended, Nikita smiled slightly in her sleep. She cuddled closer to Michael and flung her arm over his chest. Although he didn't wake, he tucked his head into her neck and sighed, as though seeking comfort from her closeness. Genevieve and Emil looked at one another with tears in their eyes.
"Je t'aime," they murmured to each other.
* * * * *
By the time Dr. Molbert returned, the couple in the bed were lying on warm towels and covered with a warm blanket. Nikita had ice packs cradled against both cheekbones, and the swelling was being contained nicely. The bruises looked like huge purple blossoms staining her white skin, and dried blood crusted the stitches in her lip. Still, she appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
Michael, as the doctor had expected, was still in very serious condition. He was extremely pale, and his respirations were shallow and too rapid. His blood pressure was only 85 over 50, which was indicative of the blood loss he had suffered. Dr. Molbert immediately hung a bag of plasma on one of the bedposts and started a line in the back of Michael's left hand. He added the first dose of antibiotic to the bag of plasma. "We are lucky that his veins have not collapsed," he commented to Emil and Genevieve, as he squeezed the plasma bag to increase the flow rate as much as possible. "Once some of his blood volume is restored, I expect his pressure to rise dramatically. You can take turns pumping the plasma in, just like I'm doing now. Don't squeeze too hard -- just enough to help it along a bit. Yes, like that," he instructed Emil, who had taken over for him at this point.
* * * * *
Within an hour, Michael's blood pressure was 105 over 62, which was in the safe zone. His breathing had deepened and slowed, especially after a very mild injection of morphine - just enough to take the edge off the pain. Dr. Molbert hadn't wanted to sedate him any more than necessary -- his pressure was still too low. But, now that a bit of color was back in his face, and he slept peacefully, the doctor could relax a bit for the first time tonight. It was nearly 10 o'clock, and he was tired. So were the Beaullieus, he knew. Emil and Genevieve, although still vigorous, were both nearly 80, and it was obvious to him that they had been through some sort of physical and emotional ordeal today. It was also obvious that they weren't about to confide in him. (Ah well, that is their prerogative. I can't force it out of them. When and if they want to tell me, they will.) He glanced over at them. They were sitting together on the settee at the end of the bed, their heads nodding. He went over and touched Emil on the shoulder.
"Go to bed - both of you. Let me sit with them for a while. I'm just going to hang another bag of plasma. When it's finished, I'll go home myself. It is my professional opinion that they'll be all right until morning. I'll return to check on them before I go to the clinic."
"Are you certain?" asked Genevieve worriedly.
"As certain as I can be at this point," replied Dr. Molbert. "Besides, I know you and Emil. You always rise with the chickens anyway. You'll be back watching them within a few hours after I leave."
Genevieve patted his arm. "You do know our habits, old friend. We'll see you for coffee in the morning. Bring some beignets with you."
"You know you shouldn't eat so many of those things. They are not good for your blood sugar." He shook his finger at Genevieve. "But just this once, you win, vielle femme," he laughed.
For the next hour he alternately dozed and checked on his patients. Just before midnight he checked vital signs on both of them. Nikita's was steady at 120 over 80, as it had been for the past several hours. That ruled out any internal bleeding of consequence. Michael's blood pressure hadn't risen much, only to 115 over 65. However, the young man's color was definitely better. It was likely that the reading was normal for someone in his excellent physical condition. He disconnected the plasma line from the needle in Michael's hand, but left in the shunt in case he needed more. After that, he checked for drainage on the wounds. Another good sign - only a slight trickle of blood and clear serum. Perhaps there would be no infection. Enough. It was time to get some sleep himself.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As was her habit, Genevieve woke at 5:00 am and said her rosary before rising. Before going downstairs to make the coffee, she checked on the two patients in the room across the hall. She carefully opened the door a crack so as not to disturb them, but she could hear from the murmur of voices that they were awake. She knocked softly and called out, "May I come in, mes enfants?"
"Please come in, Madame," Nikita mumbled, unable to speak clearly through the cuts in her lip.
Genevieve went over to the bed. Nikita looked better this morning, despite the bruises. She tried to smile, but quickly stopped when it pulled on the stitches.
"How do you feel, cherie?" asked Genevieve, lifting Nikita's chin so she could get a better look at her.
"Better, thank you. I've already made a trip to the WC on my own, without too much difficulty."
Genevieve turned to Michael and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "Good, it feels as though you have only a slight temperature. That is probably normal, considering the insult to your body. Then she looked down at his hips and said matter-of-factly, "Cher, surely you must need to make pee-pee. Let me bring you something to help you with that." Even in the dim light Nikita could see Michael blush. But, when he spoke, although his voice was hoarse and weak, he gave no hint of his embarrassment at Genevieve's offer. "Thank you, Madame. If you don't mind, I would prefer if Nikita helped me."
Genevieve chuckled. "Mais, je suis desolee! I may be old, but I have not lost my eye for beauty, Michel. Ah, Nikita, you are a very fortunate woman. I'll be back with what you need in a moment."
After handing Nikita an old glass pickle jar, she left the two of them and went downstairs to make the coffee. She would wake Emil when Dr. Molbert arrived. Until then, he would benefit from the extra hour of sleep. Yesterday had been harder on him physically than on her. A couple of slaps were all she had had to contend with. Her real pain had come from watching those pigs beat Nikita. She knew it wasn't Christian, but she hoped they were in Hell right now! She would have to go to confession today. She wondered what Father Matthieu would give her for her penance when she told him she had killed a man yesterday. She had better make herself some kneepads - she would surely be using them!
She poured the boiling water over the grounds in the old metal coffepot, then sat down at the table to await Dr. Molbert.
* * * * *
Upstairs, Nikita was arguing with Michael.
"Michael, you are too weak! You're going to spill it all over the bed, and then you'll REALLY have something to blush about when Genevieve has to change the sheets!"
He stared at her, his jaw set. When he spoke, his voice was louder, but it cracked with strain.
"Nikita, give it to me. Please."
She suddenly realized that there was more to his objection. Michael had never really been shy about his nudity in front of her. It was helplessness that he was afraid to show. Her expression softened, and she brushed her hand against his cheek.
"Je t'adore, Michel. Laisse-moi t'aider, mon amour - Let me help you, my love."
They compromised. She held the jug.
* * * * *
"Emil, wake up. Dr. Molbert has arrived, and our two friends are awake. You are the only one still sleep, and you haven't even been shot!" Genevieve grumbled as she shook him. He stretched and yawned, then threw back the covers.
(Nearly eighty and he still gets me excited,) thought Genevieve as she took in his still-muscular thighs and what lay between them. Now it was her turn to blush. Emil caught her eye and grinned. He reached for her and kissed her on the tip of one breast. She could feel his lips even through her flannel nightgown, and she moaned softly, pressing his head closer.
"Ah, mon mari, je t'aime. Fifty years, two children, and seven grandchildren, and you still have what it takes to satisfy a woman. God bless you, bebe!"
The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back as he worked his magic. She only hoped the others were a bit deaf. Emil didn't seem to care if they were or not. Life was good.
* * * * *
"Michael, do you hear that?"
His eyes remained closed, but he smiled slightly. "Yes."
"Do you think it's what it sounds like?"
"Yes."
"Oh my God! That's terrific! That can be us in another forty years!"
"Yes."
"Can't you say anything but yes?"
He opened his eyes.
"Yes. I love you, Nikita. Please hold me."
"I don't want to hurt you, Michael."
"Please."
She lay down beside him and gently raised his head until it rested in the crook of her arm. Her fingers played with the curls around his ear. He sighed in contentment and closed his eyes. In another moment he was asleep again. She listened to his soft snores, interspersed with the cries of pleasure coming from the room across the hall. Life was good.
* * * * *
Downstairs, Dr. Molbert sat and read the morning paper, drank coffee, and ate three beignets. Life was good.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Well, good morning Emil, Genevieve," said Dr. Molbert. "How are you feeling this morning?" He smiled disingenuously at the old couple standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Fine, Molbert," mumbled Emil. "Et toi?"
"Fine, thank you. I slept quite well. And you both, I might add, appear very relaxed. Evidently excitement agrees with you." This time there was no mistaking his double entendre. Genevieve blushed and ran her hand through her hair, several strands of which had come loose from her chignon.
"Let me get you some coffee," she said, trying to change the subject.
He folded his newspaper and pushed back his chair. "I hope you don't mind, but I've already had my coffee. I must be going as soon as I examine our patients. Have you had a look at them today?"
"But of course," replied Genevieve. "They both seem better to me. She is not as bad off as he is, but he seems improved as well. Now, why don't you go see for yourself. Knock before you go in, though. He is a bit wary of strangers."
As he walked up the stairs, Dr. Molbert mused about Genevieve's last remark. (Wary of strangers, eh? I should think so, judging from the scars I saw on both of them last night! Those two have a tale to tell. I wonder if I'll ever hear it?)
As suggested, he knocked before entering the bedroom. The two of them appeared to be asleep, but as he bent over to examine Michael, he was disconcerted to find himself being silently observed. The man's eyes were unusual - a true green, with the crystalline clarity of gems rather than the hazel eyes more common in biology. (The eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul,) thought the good doctor. (How is it, then, that I have no idea what this man is thinking or feeling right now?)
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Fine."
"You're not fine. Please pay me the respect of telling me the truth," brusquely replied Dr. Molbert. He heard a soft chuckle from the woman in the bed. She had obviously been listening.
Something flashed in the man's eyes - surprise, perhaps? He blinked once, slowly, then spoke again.
"I hurt."
"That's more like it," mumbled Dr. Molbert. "That I can believe. Now then, I want you to tell me how MUCH you hurt, on a scale of 1 to 10, when I press here, for example." He probed the area around the entry wound.
"Four or five."
He tilted Michael to one side and pressed lightly around the wound in his back. He could feel him stiffen.
"Eight - perhaps nine."
"I'm not surprised. It made a big hole." He examined the wound more closely, noticing the discharge from the drainage tube. Still clear. A good sign. He eased Michael back over.
"There doesn't seem to be any infection. I've been giving you an antibiotic. Hopefully it will prevent any such complication. As I told the others last night, though, you've lost a lot of blood. You're in no danger now - I gave you two liters of plasma. But, it will be some time before you get your strength back. If you wish to hasten your recovery, I suggest that you follow my orders and the orders of everyone else in this household. If we tell you to eat, you eat. To drink, you drink. To take medication, you take it. To sleep, you sleep. Merde, if we tell you to piss, you piss. And so on ad infinitum, until further notice. Do you understand?"
This time there was no doubt about what this man was thinking. He gave one jerky nod of compliance. For a moment, Dr. Molbert feared he had gone too far. This man, if pushed, would be extremely dangerous, not only to others but to himself. That much the doctor saw in his eyes.
Fortunately for both of them, Nikita chose that time to join in their little "discussion". She turned to the doctor, her eyes wide and innocent, and dropped a bombshell. "And, when he's feeling better, if I tell him to come, he has to do that too, is that right, Doctor Molbert?"
(Does she mean what I think she means?) He cleared his throat nervously. "Um, yes, of course, Madame."
"You heard Dr. Molbert, Michael," she said softly, stroking his cheek. "When you're feeling better. Hell, when I'M feeling better."
"Yes," he sighed. The doctor noticed a quirk of his lips - if one stretched a point, one might call it a smile.
"We'll make sure he remembers our little agreement, doctor."
"Very good, Madame. I think perhaps my first order is that both of you attempt to eat something. I will ask Genevieve to bring you a light breakfast. For Monsieur, soft-boiled eggs and toast should be easy to digest. And if he can keep that down, chicken soup for dinner. Unfortunately, you may not find it so easy to eat solid food. Perhaps a nice frappe? Orange juice and yogurt?"
"You sound more like a chef than a doctor," grumbled Michael under his breath.
"How discerning of you," replied Dr. Molbert. "I was indeed a chef for five years before deciding I preferred carving on live people rather than dead chickens. My parents were never certain I had made the right career move."
Nikita couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling out of her. The doctor was as much a character as Genevieve and Emil. And he was a match for Michael as well. Unfortunately, it hurt a lot to laugh, so the tears that ran down her cheeks were as much from pain as anything else. She held her sides, rocking back and forth on the bed. The resulting motion of the mattress wrung a soft groan from Michael.
Just then Genevieve entered the room. "Molbert! What do you think you are doing? You came here to help, not to make them feel worse! Get out of here before you kill them!"
Dr. Molbert turned to Nikita. "Calm yourself, Madame. I am sorry. My sharp tongue is ever my downfall. I regret that I have been the cause of your pain. I will return tonight to examine you both."
He addressed Genevieve next. "After you feed them, give her some Tylenol. He's going to need something stronger. I've left a bottle of morphine tablets in the bathroom. Give him one every four hours, whether he says he wants it or not. When I come back, I'll adjust the dosage if necessary."
When he had finished his instructions, Nikita asked, "Doctor Molbert, do I have to stay in bed with Michael?"
(I thought that was uppermost in her mind!) said the doctor to himself. But, for once he restrained his natural tendency toward verbal diarrhea. "If you feel strong enough, you may get up and walk around a bit. Use your good judgment, Madame."
"Her good judgment." Michael snickered softly. It hurt, but it was worth the pain to see the look of outrage on her face.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
By the time breakfast was over, Nikita had forgiven him. She couldn't help it -- he was hurting too badly. He hadn't spoken in the last 30 minutes, and his breathing was rapid. When Genevieve came in to take the tray, she took one look at him and said, "I'll be right back with the morphine."
She returned with a glass of water and one of the tablets. "Open up," she said as she lifted his head to help him drink. She covered his hand with hers to steady the glass. He drank eagerly. When she lay his head back on the pillow, he covered his eyes with his right forearm. It was damp with sweat. She and Nikita exchanged a knowing look.
"I'll be back to check on you in a half hour. If it's still bad, I'll give you another one."
"I don't want any more," said Michael.
"Did you hear me ask you what you wanted?" said Genevieve sharply. He didn't bother to respond. It would do no good. Besides, he didn't have the strength to fight both her and the pain.
Nikita gingerly eased herself off the bed. She wasn't feeling too bad -- the Tylenol she had taken with her breakfast was already helping. She decided she would use the respite to stretch her legs a little. After using the bathroom, she filled a small plastic bowl with warm soapy water. She carried it and a hand towel into the bedroom. He was still in the same position.
"Michael . . . ?" she whispered. She wasn't sure if he was still awake. She put her hand on his shoulder. He jerked at her touch, and his hand clenched in a sudden spasm. A soft moan escaped his lips.
"I'm so sorry - I didn't mean to startle you. I'm just going to try to make you a little more comfortable." She began to wipe the sweat off his left arm and his chest. The warm cloth smelled faintly of jasmine. He began to relax a bit. It was nice to have something to distract him. The pain receded slightly
She dunked the towel again and wrung it out. "Will you let me wipe your face?" She lifted his right arm and ran the cloth down it, then over his face. His eyes were shut, but she wiped his eyelids gently, then left the cloth resting over them. The scent of jasmine - stronger now - triggered a childhood memory. His mother had worn it often. He took a deep breath. (Maman . . . .)
He drifted back to sleep, unaware he had spoken aloud. Nikita tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. It wouldn't budge. She heard a sound behind her. Genevieve was standing there. The older woman came forward and put her arms around her.
"Do not worry, chouette. Every sick man wants his maman. Just ask any wife."
"This man is different, Madame. You can't know . . . ."
"If you recall, cherie, Emil and I survived four years of Nazi occupation. There were times when neither of us thought we could continue another moment, much less another day or month or year. It is true, I do not know all the details of your past, but I have seen enough to draw certain conclusions. And I still say this man is not so different. With enough time, and enough love, he will heal - as we have. Now dry your tears and lie down beside him. I have no doubt he will be calling your name next." She smiled at Nikita. " . . . Just ask any wife."
* * * * *
"Ni-ki-ta."
She could barely hear him. Perhaps she had only dreamt it.
"Ni-ki-ta."
She opened her eyes and turned her head on the pillow. He was watching her through half-closed eyes. His breath fanned her cheek.
"What is it, my sweet baboo?"
He smiled, then said in a husky voice. "I have to make pee-pee. Will you hold the jar?"
It was his way of apologizing, she supposed, for his earlier comment about her good judgment. She stroked his chin with the back of her hand. "You know I will."
She reached down on the side of the bed for the necessary container, then lifted the blanket and slid it beneath. In trying to position the jar, she accidentally brushed him with her hand. He was already achingly hard, not only from the need to urinate but also from his need to be inside her. At her touch, a jolt of lust shot through his groin. His stomach muscles tightened reflexively, and pain lanced through both wounds. He clamped his lips shut as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
Nikita glanced up and saw the look on his face. She whispered, "It's okay. I know it hurts." As though she had granted permission, he released the cry which he had trying so hard to hold back. He didn't know why, but that helped.
"Better?" she asked after a minute or so.
"Better. But I still have to . . . "
"I know. But this time I'm going to let you hold the jar yourself. If anything spills, we'll just change the sheets. Okay?"
"Okay."
His relief was so great that he almost fell asleep with the jar in his hand.
"Michael, are you finished yet?" Nikita's voice roused him. He handed her the full container.
"What were you trying to do -- pickle it?" she teased gently. He smiled and closed his eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
While Michael slept, Nikita made her way slowly downstairs. She found Emil and Genevieve sitting at the kitchen table, talking in low tones. She figured this must be their favorite room. She liked it herself, actually. Lemon-yellow walls, sturdy pine furniture covered with Genevieve's antique linens, a blue woven area rug over scrubbed wooden floors -- the typical French country kitchen. There were fresh flowers in the center of the table - daffodils and a spray of lavender. Their perfume blended with the smell of coffee and a fresh-baked apple tart cooling on top of the old-fashioned iron stove.
"Hi," she said, hesitant to disturb what appeared to be a very private conversation. But having just expended all her energy getting downstairs, she really didn't have much choice. She needed to sit down.
Emil jumped up and pulled out a chair for her. She sank down into it gratefully.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"How do I look?" she countered.
"It was a stupid question," he admitted. "What I really meant to say is that Genevieve and I are in your debt forever for what you and Michel have done. Our home is your home. You are now honorary members of the Beaullieu family."
Nikita ducked her head to hide the tears sparkling in her eyes. A family. For her. For Michael.
"Thank you," she said.
"And now, to celebrate, we must taste the new Beaujolais Village! It has just come of age."
Genevieve chuckled. "He has been waiting for an excuse to open the first bottle for the past two weeks. And I can't think of a better reason than this, cherie." She beamed at Nikita.
While Emil was uncorking the wine and pouring it into glasses, Genevieve told Nikita what she and Emil had been discussing.
"We have decided to contact Monsieur Boudreaux about the items we found in the horse. He is an old friend of Emil's - they were in La Resistance together. Monsieur Boudreaux is an expert on stolen art. He has compiled the most comprehensive list possible of what was taken from French museums during the war. Many of the items now on display in the Louvre and other major museums were recovered by Boudreaux. Of course, we will wait until you and Michel have recovered a bit before we invite him here. He is a man of great curiosity, and it would be too tempting for him to pry into your own situation."
"Speaking of your situation," interjected Emil, "I think it best if you remain here until Michel is up and around. I know he resents our control over him right now, but it is for his own good. Do you not agree?"
Nikita tried hard not to grin. "Yes, I definitely agree, Monsieur. It will be my sweet revenge for all the times Michael has exerted his control over me -- for MY own good, of course." (If you only knew.)
"Alors, let us toast to your speedy recovery. Salut."
The wine stung the cuts on her lip, but she didn't mind at all.
* * * * *
Upstairs, Michael woke and found her gone.
"Nikita." He could hardly hear himself. He tried again. "Nikita!" No matter how much he willed it, his voice was too weak to be heard outside the bedroom.
(Where is she? Why doesn't she come back? Is she all right?) He could feel the panic rising. (Of course she's fine. They're all dead. I killed them. They can't hurt her any more.) He kept repeating the words to himself, but the anxiety wouldn't go away. There was no help for it. He had to find her. Now.
* * * * *
"Did you hear something?" Genevieve cocked her head.
"Non, nothing," replied Emil.
Nikita was already half out of her chair. "It's Michael," she said. "Hurry."
Emil was the first one into the room. "Mon Dieu! I doubted your sanity yesterday, but today I have no more doubt. Tu es fou - you are crazy, Michel!"
As she made her laborious way up the stairs, Nikita could hear Emil scolding Michael. By the time she reached the doorway, he was back in bed. His face was the color of a dirty dishrag. Blood spotted the bandages. Emil and Genevieve were panting from the effort of picking him up off the floor. Emil continued to rave, waving his arms for emphasis in pure Gallic fashion. Finally, he shook his finger under Michael's nose. His voice trembled with anger. "You WILL NOT get out of this bed until Molbert gives his permission. TU COMPRENDS?"
Michael ignored the tirade completely. He looked at Nikita and rasped, "I couldn't find you."
She sank down beside him and pulled him into her arms. "I'm here, Michael. I'm right here."
He began to cry. With each racking sob, a bit more blood stained the bandages.
"Go get Molbert," Genevieve directed Emil. "Vite."
He hurried out the door. Genevieve pulled a chair up next to the bed. "Shh, shh, mon enfant," she murmured as she patted him on the shoulder. "Ca va bien, n'est ce pas? Nikita est ici - she is here."
Eventually, he quieted. They weren't sure if that was a good sign or not. Nikita hugged him close, careless of the pain from her cracked ribs. Genevieve brought a glass of water, and he gulped it thirstily. Nikita eased him back down on the bed and they covered him tightly with the blanket. He was moaning and writhing in pain when Dr. Molbert and Emil returned.
"What's all this commotion?" he asked. "From the way Emil was acting, I thought surely I'd find you dead when I got here." He pulled down the blanket and examined the bloodstained bandages. Turning to Genevieve, he said "I see why you were concerned. However, this doesn't appear to be too bad. He may have torn a couple of stitches, but that's easily enough mended. Now just what brought about all this embarras?
They were all silent. Dr. Molbert sighed. "Very well, then. Let me stitch him up again and rebandage the wounds. If there's still no infection, I might as well remove the tube while I'm at it." He turned to Michael. "I'm going to knock you out completely for this. I don't want you ruining my work even before I finish it!"He pulled a syringe from his surgical kit, filled it with a colorless liquid, and swiftly injected the sedative into Michael's much-abused derriere. Within two minutes, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp.
"Voila," said Dr. Molbert. "Now all of you - get out and let me work."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"He'll sleep for another couple of hours at least."
Dr. Molbert came into the kitchen and joined the anxious trio sitting around the table. He sat down and ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. Then he tried one more time.
"If none of you will tell me what caused this, I don't know how to help him. This time he was lucky. No serious damage was done. But if he reinjures himself, I can't give you any guarantee that he will recover."
Emil and Genevieve looked at Nikita. She took a deep breath. "It was my fault, doctor."
He waited. She continued. "When I left the room, he was asleep. I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit, so I came down here to visit Emil and Genevieve. I heard the noise upstairs and knew what had happened."
"And what was that, Madame?"
"He woke up and saw I was gone. He was trying to find me."
"Why would he be so desperate to get to you that he would risk his life? Frankly, I am astonished that he had the strength to get out of bed. The pain must have been terrible."
Nikita hesitated. She was walking a tightrope here. Just how much or how little could she safely reveal?
"He has these anxiety attacks, I guess you could call them. Sometimes, if I'm not with him, he becomes convinced that something bad has happened to me."
Then he asked the question she feared.
"Is there any basis for his belief?"
"Yes."
Dr. Molbert waited. She knew it was too late to back out now.
"He's lost everyone else he loved. Most recently, his wife and four-year old son."
"How long ago?"
"About two months." She could feel the Beaullieus' eyes on her. What must they think of her and Michael now? Here they were, posing as a married couple, with his wife and child barely underground. Then she felt Genevieve's hand cover hers. She looked up. The older woman smiled at her with acceptance and understanding. Nikita's vision blurred.
"Who else did he lose? And how long ago?" Dr. Molbert continued to probe for answers.
"His best friend, two years ago. His first wife, about five years ago. Their infant son, the year before that, I think." She didn't mention his sister or his parents. That would DEFINITELY open up another can of worms.
"Mon Dieu!" whispered Emil. Genevieve's hand tightened on Nikita's.
"And he blames himself for their deaths."
Nikita nodded.
"That is not unusual. The survivor often feels guilty. Now that I know the root of the problem, I believe I can help him, Madame."
Nikita shook her head. "It isn't that simple, doctor. There are circumstances surrounding their deaths that I absolutely cannot tell you. But Michael isn't only suffering from "survivor's guilt," as you call it. He is suffering because he has the courage to accept responsibility for the part he played in their deaths.
Dr. Molbert sat stunned by Nikita's revelation. "Are you saying he killed all these people?"
"No. In fact, I can assure you, he would have given anything to prevent their deaths. But it was not his choice to make."
"Madame, there is always a choice."
Nikita smiled sadly. "And what if there are only terrible choices? What if, no matter which decision you make, someone dies?"
Dr. Molbert had no answer to that. He knew she was right. As a doctor, he too had faced such dilemmas. The difference was that none of them, thank God, had involved someone he loved.
Emil and Genevieve, too, could relate to what Nikita had said. Pieces of the puzzle surrounding this young couple began to fall into place. Emil remembered Michael's reaction yesterday as they waited to enter the stronghold. Emil prompted her with a question of his own.
"And you, Nikita? Have any of his terrible choices involved you?"
She looked up at him. Her eyes were enormous. "Yes," she whispered.
"And do you blame him?"
"I did at one time. Not any more."
"Why not?"
"Because he blames himself enough for both of us. Because his pain is greater than my own. Because he needs me. Because he loves me. Because I love him."
Genevieve's eyes locked on Emil's. "Exactement," she said.
Dr. Molbert sighed deeply. "I need a drink."
Emil jumped up. "Et moi, I have just the thing." He plucked a dusty bottle from the top shelf of the cupboard. He set it on the table. Nikita eyed it dubiously. Its contents swirled thick and dark with sediment. Genevieve supplied tiny crystal glasses, and Emil poured. It was beautiful, whatever it was. So deep a red that it was almost black. Nikita raised her glass and took a whiff. "Cherries!"
"Mais oui," said Genevieve. "It is what you would call, in English, "cherry bounce." Every year I make a batch from the tiny wild cherries growing that tree outside the window. I know they have reached the perfect stage for picking when the birds who have eaten them begin to fly into the windows or to stagger around on the ground. Then I harvest them and mix them with bourban. The mixture ages until the next year - or even longer. It gets richer as time passes."
"Bourban! I thought that was an American liquor. How in the world did you think of using it?"
"Oh, my family has always had a recipe for making liqueur from the cherries. But it was during the war that a wounded American soldier from La Sud-Ouest Louisianne gave me his own family's recipe. I had given him a taste of ours, and he commented that it reminded him of his mother's. I tried her recipe and have used it ever since." She whispered in Nikita's ear. "It is excellent for a woman's monthly misere. And women in labor swear by it. It allows them to sleep between the pains. I will give you a bottle to take home with you."
Nikita remembered how much she had hurt last month. "Thank you, Madame."
Emil interrupted their tete-a-tete. "Well, what are you waiting for? Molbert and I are already on our second glass."
Nikita lifted her glass. She held it up to the others and murmured, "A la vie."
"A la vie," they echoed solemnly.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Eh bien," said Dr. Molbert to Nikita. "You have a decision to make. There are several options. I could keep him sedated for the next few days, to give the wounds a chance to begin healing properly. The difficulty with that is that he won't be able to take nourishment by mouth. I can give him some nutrients by IV solution, but I am concerned he does not have adequate reserves and would only weaken further. I have noticed that he is too thin.
"I know," said Nikita. "He is only now regaining some of the weight he's lost since the deaths of his wife and child. And I have reason to believe this has been his pattern for a long time."
"That is understandable," said Dr. Molbert. "But, it does complicate matters even further. The only other viable alternative I can think of is to insert a feeding tube. And even this carries some risk. He could become dependent on that form of nourishment and refuse to eat once the tube is removed. On the other hand, a temporary reprieve from the stress he has been under could reawaken his appetite. You know him best, Nikita. How do you think he would react?"
"I think he would hate it. He would fight us every step of the way, and that includes removing the tube himself. I know that in the past he's removed IV's, catheters, and once even a breathing tube. He has quite a reputation among medical personnel."
"But if he were heavily sedated, that would not be a problem, surely," said Dr. Molbert.
Nikita looked at him unblinking. "He also has a reputation for not remaining sedated." She looked at the clock on the wall. "In fact, I think you'd better go check on him right now."
Dr. Molbert checked the time. "Impossible. I gave him enough to knock out a horse for four hours."
Nikita just raised her eyebrows.
"I'll be back in a minute. I need to check his vital signs anyway."
* * * * *
"Genevieve? Emil? Help Nikita up the stairs, will you?" Dr. Molbert's voice called from upstairs. He sounded calm, but Nikita knew something was up. When they entered the bedroom, he was standing beside the bed, his right arm firmly in Michael's grasp. When Michael saw Nikita, he released his hold, and Dr. Molbert stumbled back from the bed, rubbing his arm.
"You were right. I thought he was still unconscious. But, when I tried to check his pulse, he grabbed me." He picked up Michael's wrist and checked the racing heartbeat. "As you can see for yourself, she is quite all right," he said quietly. "Calme-toi."
"Move over, Michael," said Nikita as she sat down on the bed. He shifted painfully, and she lifted the covers and slid in beside him. She took his right hand in hers and stroked his palm with her thumb. Dr. Molbert noticed an immediate slowing of his pulse rate. "Ca va mieux," he mumbled to himself.
"Regardez - he is already asleep," observed Genevieve.
"Incroyable," added Emil.
"Well, Nikita, I must admit you have been accurate in your prediction of his responses. I agree that the feeding tube would cause more problems than it would solve. So that, in effect, rules out heavy sedation. The question remain, then, how to prevent him from becoming so anxious about you." The doctor thought for a moment. "Does he trust Genevieve and Emil to tell him the truth, at least about your well-being?"
"I think so," she replied.
"That is a beginning, at least. That gives us another option. I believe that as long as one of you stays with him at all times, he will remain calm. It would not be healthy, Nikita, for you to bear the sole burden of watching him. In order to regain your strength, you must get out of bed, walk about, and in a few days, return to your own home for a few hours at a time. And it will be good for him, also, to have someone else to talk to, to know he can count on for help. Who better than Emil and Genevieve?" He cast a knowing glance at the older couple. "I'm sure you have some 'war stories' you can share with him. It might also help him to know he is not alone in his guilt."
(I wonder if he realizes just how right he is,) said Genevieve to herself. Emil nodded. "You're right, Molbert. It might be good for us too."
"All right, then. We have a plan of action. I'll leave it to you to decide who stays with him when. Oh, one more thing. I do think it best to keep him as pain-free as possible. I noticed that only two of the morphine tablets were missing. Was that sufficient?"
"No." Said Nikita and Genevieve in chorus.
"I suspected as much. I want you to double the dosage. The more he sleeps, the sooner he'll heal. And feed him as often as you can - even if he'll only take a few bites. He'll be more likely to eat when he wakes from the first deep sleep after each dose. Don't wait, though, until he's in pain again. As soon as he's eaten and done whatever else he needs to do, pop another pill into him. I don't think you need to worry about addiction. From what you've told me, he would much prefer to suffer than to allow himself surcease in drugs. So, if that is all, I'll be going."
"Um, doctor, might I speak with you privately?" asked Nikita.
"Of course. Would you excuse us, Emil? Genevieve?"
"We'll be downstairs, Molbert," said Emil as he ushered Genevieve out the door. "Genevieve has made a nice chicken soup. Have a bowl with us before you go."
"My pleasure, mes amis. I'll be down in a few minutes."
Genevieve turned to Nikita. "I'll bring up a big bowl for you too, cherie. That way, if he happens to wake up, you can share with him." She winked.
