* * * * *

Against the rear stone wall of l'Eglise de Saint Pierre de Bienville, Michel Samuelle thrust himself as deeply as he could into his eager bride. They strained together, thighs quivering, as they rocked back and forth ever so slightly. Her dress was hiked up around her waist, and the rough stone abraded her rear end, but she couldn't care less. He hadn't had time to drop his pants - only to open his braguette enough to free that red-hot bar which had been tormenting him all through the ceremony. Just then, she groaned and arched into him. He bucked against her, grinding his hipbones into hers, coming in such a violent rush that she cried out as the scalding milk of him filled her cup to the brim. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and she heard his helpless groans give way to a long sigh of relief. She sagged back against the wall, her boneless limbs no longer able to support her.

"Michael? What are we going to do? We have to go back there and face them! One look at us and they'll know what we've been up to."

He gave a breathless chuckle. "You think they don't already know?" He pulled out and away from her, staggering slightly.

"Do you have a handkerchief?"

"Here." He handed her a black silk square. She wiped herself, then started to clean him off. He jerked and came half-erect again under her hand. "I'd better do that," he grated, and took the cloth from her. "I think you're right," she mumbled as she tried to straighten and smooth her dress.

"You look fine," he assured her as he zipped his pants. He cupped her face in his palm and kissed her once more. "So beautiful." She stood back a bit and looked into his eyes. She brushed the back of her hand over his cheek and echoed, "So beautiful."

Arm in arm, they returned to face the music. And the laughter. And the warm and loving friends who waited for them.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The party lasted well into the evening. The young couple had been toasted with champagne. The cake had been cut and pronounced delicious by one and all. Nikita appeared to have fallen into a coma from an overdose of chocolate. She lay across the sofa with her bare feet resting in Michael's lap. He massaged them absently-mindedly while sipping brandy from Father Philippe's private stock. Now and then a faint smile would cross his lips, as he listened to the conversations swirling around them. After an hour or so, his eyes drooped shut, and only quick action by Birkoff saved the brandy glass from shattering on the stone floor.

"Let them sleep," murmured the priest. "They must be exhausted."

"No doubt," snorted Emil. He and Father Philippe looked at one another, then burst out laughing all over again. So, the party continued with its guests of honor enthroned in oblivious splendor.

Sometime around six o'clock, Walter ended up in the rectory's kitchen, making sandwiches from a leftover roast. Emil and Father Philippe had really hit it off, and at this very moment he was singing "La Marseillaise" accompanied by the priest on the ancient upright in the parlor. Father Philippe's technique left something to be desired, but there was no doubt about his enthusiasm.

As he brought in the platter of sandwiches, Walter noticed that Genevieve now occupied center stage. He sat down beside Emil and waited. She nodded to Father Philippe, who played several chords as introduction. In a smoky contralto seemingly unaffected by the years, she launched into "La Vie en Rose." She sang directly to Emil.

C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie

(It's him for me and me for him, in this life.)

The last line died away into utter silence. Then, the clapping began. Emil had tears running down his cheeks. He got up and hugged Genevieve fiercely. "Je t'aime, ma petite." She returned his embrace and whispered, "And I love you, my husband. Pour tous les jours de ma vie. - for all the days of my life."

"I think we should have another toast!" shouted Birkoff. He had had several glasses of champagne and was feeling no pain. "To love!"

"Right on!" echoed Walter, as he filled their glasses. "Toujours l'amour!"

After that, things gradually began to quiet down. They fell upon the sandwiches like ravening wolves. And when those were gone, they began eyeing the remains of the cake.

"Just one more little piece couldn't hurt," said Genevieve, as she plopped a thick slab onto Birkoff's plate. She pinched his cheek. "You need fattening up anyway, piglet," she teased.

Birkoff's mouth dropped open in surprise, and Walter nearly choked on his own bite of cake. What he would give for a surveillance tape of this gathering!

" . . . time to wake them up, don't you think?" he caught the tail end of Emil's remark. The others were discussing the sleepers.

"Do you know their plans?" asked Father Philippe.

"Non. They have kept their own counsel," replied Genevieve.

"They've had a lot of practice at that," murmured Walter.

"I know," she said, putting her hand over his. He was almost afraid to meet her eyes. She said nothing more. Just nodded in a comradely fashion.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "I guess it's about time for us to clear out of here anyway. We need to be back in Paris by ten o'clock. Besides, we don't want to overstay our welcome."

"You are always welcome here," said Father Philippe. "You must return soon and plan to visit with me for a few days at least." At that, Birkoff's eyes lit up. "We were just talking about that on the way here, Father. We'll do that real soon, won't we, Walter?"

"You can count on it, kid." He decided then and there. Whatever it took, they'd come back. Birkoff deserved that much.

"I suppose we should wake them up, then. Genevieve and I must be going also, mon pere. I don't like to drive after dark. My eyes, you know."

They stood around looking at one another - all thinking the same thing. Who was going to be the one who tried to wake those two from a sound sleep?

"Allow me," said Father Philippe finally. He walked over to Michael and placed his hands gently on the top of the sleeper's head. He waited a few moments, allowing the warmth to penetrate, then called him softly by name. "Michel. Michel. Attends. C'est moi, Pere Philippe." The younger man's eyes opened. The priest repeated the litany softly. He lifted his hands and came to stand in front of Michael. He smiled down at him and said calmly, "Did you have a nice nap, mon fils?"

To Walter's amazement, Michael smiled back at him and replied pleasantly, "Very nice, mon pere." He shrugged his shoulders apologetically. "Please forgive us. We did not intend to fall asleep. Why didn't you wake us?" He shook Nikita gently. "Nikita, wake up." She lashed out with her foot, nearly catching him in the groin. It was a good thing her feet were bare! He stood up and raked his hands through his hair. Turning to face the company, he apologized again for his and Nikita's neglect of them all.

"Pas du tout!" Emil assured him. "I tell you, we have all had a marvelous time. It is only too bad that you have missed so much of it yourselves. But do not worry. We will have another celebration - at the baptism, eh?" His chuckle turned into a groan as Genevieve elbowed him sharply in the side.

Michael's expression flattened. He made no response to Emil's friendly jibe. Just turned back to Nikita and shook her again, this time from a safer spot. She mumbled something unintelligible at first, then opened her eyes wide. "Oh my God!" She scrambled up from the sofa, nearly toppling Michael. She looked at them all in chagrin. "I am so SORRY! I can't believe I fell asleep! Michael, how could you let me . . .!" He put his hands up and shook his head, backing away slowly. "It wasn't my fault . . ."

She stared at him open-mouthed, then burst into laughter. "It wasn't your fault? Not your fault?" She tilted her head and grinned at him. Then, she stepped closer and gave him a kiss full on the lips. "Congratulations, my sweet baboo," she whispered in his ear. "But, you sure picked a fine time to decide that something actually happened that isn't YOUR fault!"

The others didn't hear what she said to him, but whatever it was, he was obviously profoundly affected by it. He turned his face into her shoulder and hugged her so tightly they wondered how she could breathe. But she didn't seem to mind. After a few minutes they disengaged and turned to face their friends.

"We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your love and support today. Your presence has been the best wedding gift of all."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They had been the last to leave Bienville that night. Michael's mood had become more somber once their guests had departed. Distant - distracted, he had smoothly deflected Father Philippe's attempts to draw him out. Rather, with exquisite courtesy, he had expressed their gratitude one last time and escorted Nikita to the rented Peugeot he had reserved.

"Where are we going?"

He looked at her solemnly. "Home."

"This isn't the way home, Michael."

He downshifted. "Not the farm."

She didn't ask any more questions.

He drove through the night, stopping only for petrol and coffee. It was nearly dawn when they entered Marseilles. They passed elegant townhomes and shops, continuing into an older neighborhood of larger estates set well back from the quiet tree-lined streets. He stopped the car across the street from a wrought-iron gate. A carriage lamp illumined the address -- 23 Rue de Varenne.

He lowered the car windows. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. He sat back and stared silently at the gate and the driveway beyond. She ran her fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He shivered under her touch. Suddenly, he opened the door and stood up. She got out and walked around to his side of the car. She leaned into him and he put his arm around her, drawing her close. She could feel his whole body vibrating.

"Sshh," she whispered, stroking his back in slow circles. "I'm right here, Michael. I love you. Nothing's going to change that."

He turned to face her for the first time since he had stopped the car. His eyes were dark pools, glistening in the lamplight. He stroked his thumb across her eyebrow.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because of who you are, Michael."

"And you think you know who I am." His voice held such regret, such pain, that she knew he was prepared to lose her. Was already devastated by that loss. In that instant, she made a silent vow. No matter what he confessed, she would stand by him. Somehow, they would deal with it. However, she knew there was no way he would believe her if she told him that. All she could do was wait. And listen.

He pointed to the gate. "I grew up here. My father grew up here. And my grandfather, and his father. This has been the Samuelle family home since 1778. Louis XVI awarded the property to Moishe Samuelle in payment for the necklace he fashioned for the Queen.

"The emerald and diamond necklace from the Josephine collection."

"Yes." He continued.

"Moishe Samuelle came from a long line of Jewish diamond cutters. Expert jewelers. They were known throughout Europe for their artistry. The necklace was Moishe's first commission from the king. It was only the beginning."

"The entire collection? . . ."

"Yes."

"And this?" She pointed to the ring on her finger.

"Was made by Moishe, but not for the royal family. As a wedding gift to his son and daughter-in-law."

"But how did these become part of the collection?"

He wrapped his arms around himself. "It's cold here."

"Michael, you can't just stop now. You have to tell it all."

He stroked her cheek. "I know. There's an inn a few miles up the road. Come with me that far. I'll finish it there." Again, that tone of hopeless finality.

"All right, Michael."

* * * * *

The inn had a blue door, and was named, appropriately enough, "La Porte Bleue". The proprietor was already up, and the smell of coffee wafted into the reception area. Nikita's nose twitched in appreciation. Michael noticed, and he requested that a pot of coffee and a selection of pastries be brought to their room as soon as possible. A sleepy-eyed young man escorted them to a room at the back, with a tiny balcony overlooking the kitchen garden.

While waiting for breakfast, Michael started a fire in the pot-bellied stove that stood in one corner of the room. He crouched in front of the open stove door, feeding in small sticks, then larger ones as the blaze caught. Nikita stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders, admiring his economy of motion.

It was only a few minutes before there was a knock on the door. He made no move to rise - only huddled there staring into the flames. She opened the door and indicated the small round table near the balcony door. The young man set down the tray and accepted politely the few francs she shoved into his palm. After he had left, she poured the steaming coffee into the two yellow crockery mugs on the tray.

"Come have some coffee," she invited, and he slowly stood up and came to the table. She pulled out a chair and shoved him gently down into it, then sat across from him. She blew on her coffee. Steam drifted across the top. Deliberately casual, she picked up a croissant and broke off a large piece. She chewed in silence, tried to swallow what felt like a lump of raw dough. It stuck in her throat, and she took a long sip of coffee, watching him all the time from over the rim of her mug. He had wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, and she noticed that the warmth had stilled their tremor - for now. She steeled herself for what was to come.

"Okay, Michael. Start talking."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

He raised the mug to his lips. It clattered against his teeth as he took a sip. He set it back down with exaggerated care, then looked out the window in silence for a long time. He began to twist the ring on his finger, around and around. When he spoke, his voice was so low she had to strain to understand the words.

"The rings were passed from generation to generation. From oldest son to oldest son. My grandparents were the last to wear them. They had them on when they were taken away by the Nazis. German art experts would have recognized the craftsmanship and included them in the Josephine collection. My father -- he used to tell me the story of the rings. I must have heard it a thousand times. They were a symbol of all he had lost. They were part of my legacy as his only son."

"And the rest of it?"

He really had trained her well. In that one question, she had cut straight to the heart of who and what he was.

She heard his sharp intake of breath and knew that she had scored. A keening sound started in the back of his throat, and he began rocking back and forth, cradling his hands in his armpits.

"Michael? Michael?"

It was like she had turned off a switch. He stopped and looked at her with glassy eyes in a paper-white face. "Please."

"And the rest of it?" she repeated, ruthless in the face of necessity.

He realized she wasn't going to let it go. Not this time. He felt like an animal with its paw caught in a trap. Gnawing it off in the desperation to escape. He began to tug viciously as his ring, tearing and bruising his knuckle. She reached across and stilled his hand. "Stop."

She had left him no options. Blocked every other route. The only way left was forward.

"My father was 15 years old when his parents and little sisters were taken. He never saw them again. He only escaped because he was out hunting. His father thought that the family was exempt from the laws governing Jews, since they had converted to Catholicism during the 1920's. He was wrong. My father became a sniper with la Resistance. That's how Emil met him. He was barely 18 when the war ended. He had killed 107 men."

He paused. Then, in a dreamy voice, he continued. "When I was little - maybe five or six - he would take his rifle out of the case and show me the notches he had carved in it. I learned to count to 100 that way. I had trouble understanding a number that big. Strange. It doesn't seem like so very many to me now." He looked at her with a puzzled expression, as though she might be able to explain it to him. She shuddered. He was far from her now, and she wasn't at all certain she could call him back.

She extended her hand and brushed his hair back from his face. He flinched away from her touch. For a few minutes, he just sat there, staring into space. Then the words began to flow from him once more.

"After the war, he spent several years drifting - to Spain, Italy, Greece - eventually making his way across the Mediterranean to Palestine. He made connections there. Men like himself, who were searching for some raison d'etre. They traveled to the United States, to the Soviet Union, China, Australia. They were pilgrims in search of power. And my father was their guide. In their travels, they drew other devotees to their cause.

"Which was?"

His smile was chilling. "Why, to protect the innocent, of course. To eradicate terrorism, by whatever means necessary."

She felt as though a worm had begun to nibble at her brain.

He continued. "By the mid-fifties, they had enough influence and capital to establish their own power base - 'Le Centre' - in Paris."

Nibble nibble. The worm grew.

"Why Paris?"

"DeGaulle offered. He was determined to wipe out the shame of France's defeat at the hands of the Germans. He saw my father, a certified hero of the Resistance, as his means to achieve that end. It never occurred to him that my father was using him instead."

She murmured, "Predator and prey - it all depends on one's point of view."

Suddenly, he focused on her. "Exactement."

"He met my mother while on a trip to New York in 1965. He was 38. She was 23 - a secretary to the French delegation at the U.N. They married three weeks after they met. She used to tell me it was a "coup de foudre" - a thunderbolt - that struck them. I never believed her. Until it happened to me."

In an instant, his naked need for her was written all over his face. His eyes were flame, and she was unable to shield herself from the blaze. It burned. It burned. She reached out to him, and he caught her hand in a grip so tight she could feel her bones shifting. Tears blurred her vision.

"I'm sorry," he husked, as he loosened his hold on her. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"No matter," she said. "Go on."

"They returned to Marseilles. He had restored the family home. I was born there the next year. Marie followed in 1973."

"My mother was never fully aware of his work. She was content with her home and her children, with her music and art. She worked part-time at the university art museum. My father's long absences were a source of friction, though. They fought often - giving no quarter. It was quite frightening to us. I sometimes prayed that they would divorce, but they never did. Despite everything, I know now that they loved one another - violently so - until the end."

"And how did it end?"

A long pause. "She died. When I was 14."

"How?"

"Violently."

She almost couldn't get the words out. "Who killed her?" Prepared herself for the answer she expected.

He looked at her. "Not him."

She regrouped. "Who then?"

"She was teaching a summer class in art at the université. She got caught in the middle of a student demonstration that turned into a riot. When it was over, she lay trampled in the middle of the street."

The worm nibbled. And grew.

"Did the demonstrators have a name for themselves?"

He took a sip of cold coffee. Looked out the window again. "L'Heure Sanguine."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Excuse me. I'll be back in a moment."

He stood up and walked to the door. She was tempted to follow him, but something held her back. All the same, she was weak with relief when he returned. He sat down and waited politely for her next question.

"What did the police do?"

"Nothing. In those days, there was very little they could do. The student uprisings were just beginning, and the authorities had no experience in dealing with them. Since there were no witnesses willing to testify as to what had actually happened, her death was ruled accidental."

"And your father? What did he do?"

"He buried her." Then, in a hoarse whisper, "Et moi avec elle."

"And you with her?" She repeated in English.

He cocked his head, as though the English were gibberish. When he spoke again, it was in a thick accent, "Oui. . . I mean yes. Me wit' her."

She was terrified she had pushed him too far. "Michael, do you want to stop?"

He did want to stop. So badly that he could almost taste it. But he couldn't. The memories were beating inside his head, so insistent now that he felt he would go mad if he couldn't release the pressure. From deep within, he drew on his last reserves of strength. He took a deep breath. Then another.

"No, thank you." This time he managed the "th."

"How did he bury you, Michael?"

"He initiated Phase I. Started the sequence -- too soon. Too soon!" The rage blossomed. Consumed him. "I was only a child! . . . I was only a child." He said it again - all emotion leached from his tone. With his back against the wall, he had flipped that emotional switch.

(Thank God!) she thought. She didn't begrudge him whatever defenses he needed to see this through.

"I found out later that he had always intended for me to succeed him eventually. But, my mother's death triggered in him that same thirst for revenge as had the slaughter of his family. This time, I was his weapon. The day of her funeral, he took me with him to Le Centre. It was quite a revelation. The technology was amazing - even then. He introduced me to his chief strategist - a man he called Mr. Jones. For two days and nights they force-fed me the details of the organization my father and his cadre had created. By the third day, I was no longer a child."

"For the next four years, I trained for my first mission."

"Which was?"

"To infiltrate - and destroy - L'Heure Sanguine."

"Which you did."

"Of course. With one exception - its leader."

"René Dion."

He nodded. "He wasn't what I expected. I was starving, and he fed me. I was cold, and he warmed me. I was an outcast, and he took me in. In the end, I couldn't betray him."

"So you became the sacrifice."

"Yes, although I didn't think of myself in those terms."

"And when you were imprisoned?"

"My father turned that to his advantage as well. It served a dual purpose. To teach me a lesson, and to use me to accomplish his next goal. By this time, Section One was becoming a problem. Adrian and her chief strategist, Paul Wolfe, were having 'philosophical' differences. There was imminent danger of a coup. The Board was concerned. My father assured them he would do whatever it took to restore stability."

"So you entered Section as a recruit."

"Yes."

"And for all those years, you worked your way up, taking on every filthy job they threw at you. You became their whore. And for what? Operations and Madeline DID overthrow Adrian. Operations' plan to recruit prisoners became standard Section policy. So, you failed."

"No. I accomplished my mission."

"How can you say that?"

"The goal was never prevention. It was containment."

Now she understood. "Like driving a race car. A light touch on the wheel - minor course corrections."

"Exactly. Too heavy a hand and you hit the wall."

"And Operations and Madeline never suspected that they were being manipulated?"

"They suspected. They thought it was George."

"When did they find out the truth?"

"The day we left."

She remembered his mysterious phone call the morning after Adam's death.

"So, for the past twelve years, you have been taking orders from . .. .?"

"For the first eight - my father. When he died, his successor. Mr. Jones."

"How did your father die?"

"He shot himself."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I'm sure. I was in his office when he did it. He had called us in - me and Mr. Jones - as witnesses. He had terminal cancer. He was determined to make his own appointment with death. But, he wanted to ensure a smooth transition. So, he videotaped our last meeting."

"And why did Jones succeed him instead of you?"

An ironic smile twisted his lips.

"By that time, I was too valuable in the position I already held. The Vacek mission was in play. Elena was pregnant with Adam. An attack from Red Cell was predicted within the next two years. And you . . . "

"What about me?"

"Your training was in a . . . crucial phase."

"You mean Operations was ready to cancel me."

"Yes."

"But surely you could have protected me as head of Center?"

He shook his head slowly. "Not without jeopardizing the delicate balance of power. I could not have justified that to the Board."

"So you turned down the succession. You stayed with me."

"I owed it to you."

"How do you figure that?"

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She could see the truth in his eyes.

"Whose idea was it to recruit me? To frame me for murder?"

"My father's. He saw you as a lever - another means of controlling Operations. The plan to recruit criminals had always been controversial - had been approved by the slimmest of margins. It would have been more than Oversight could swallow to have Operations framing people in order to recruit them.

"Did Operations know I was really innocent?"

"No. It was my responsibility to make sure of that."

He sighed. It was almost over. Soon he could rest.

"Nikita, I've ruined everything - and everyone - I've touched. Simone. Elena and Adam. You.

Before she could say anything, he stood up. "Please excuse me. I won't be long."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

This time when he left the room, she peeked out the door to see where he was going. He walked stiffly down the hall, one hand sliding along the wall for support. He entered the bathroom at the end of the corridor and closed the door. She was right behind, but if he was aware of her presence, he was incapable of doing anything about it. He was on his knees, draped over the bowl of the toilet. There was nothing left to come up -- that had gone down the drain nearly an hour ago, on his previous visit. Still, his body convulsed with dry heaves - nearly silent spasms that forced red-tinged bile from somewhere deep inside him. A spoonful at a time, it spurted into the water, swirling in patterns like dye. Again and again and again.

She covered him with her body, her arms over his arms, her breast and belly against his bowed back, her cheek nestled in his hair. She whispered over and over into his ear. "I love you. Let God love you. I love you. Let God love you."

The convulsions remained violent. He was completely spent, losing consciousness during the brief respites his body allowed. Only her hold on him kept him from drowning. Gradually, the interval between attacks lengthened, and she began to hope for an end to it. She looked around for a towel. Snagging one from the shelf above the sink, she wet it under the faucet and pressed it, sopping, to his forehead. He gave one last bubbling hiccup and moaned softly. She held the cold towel in place for the next several minutes, until she was sure it was finally over. She let him slide down onto the floor, turning him on his side just in case. He was utterly still. His face was almost translucent, with blue veins she had never seen before crisscrossing his eyelids and temples. She wiped pink-tinged froth from the corners of his mouth, then lay down behind him on the cool tile, spoon-fashion, drawing him into the circle of her arms. In his ear, she continued the mantra she had begun. "I love you, Michael. Let God love you."

It was nearly a half-hour before he came out of it. She felt him tense, then try to roll over. She released him and sat up, watching his feeble attempts to lift himself off the floor. He looked dazed, uncoordinated.

"Michael, listen to me. Michel - ecoutes." She used her most commanding tone of voice. He peered up at her, his eyes struggling to focus.

"Put your arm around my neck," she instructed, crouching beside him. He obeyed, but she had to hold his hand to keep it from slipping off. She grabbed him by the belt and hauled him to his feet. His legs were rubber, and as they folded under him she hoisted him over her shoulder. (Thank God this isn't a small bathroom!). She opened the door a crack, looked in both directions down the hall, then carried him back to their room. She locked the door behind her and dropped him down on the bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

* * * * *

She couldn't believe the magnitude of his revelations. She felt numb. She supposed she was still in shock. A fragment of the Old Testament came to mind. Something about the sins of the fathers. The fathers. No wonder there was such a close bond between them. They were both victims of a personal holocaust. Well, the cycle was going to end here and now.

She sat down on the bed and picked up his left hand. She rubbed her thumb over the emerald in the ring. It was the color of his eyes. She was willing to bet that Moishe Samuelle's eyes had been that same green. She threaded his fingers through hers. Pressing their joined hands to her lips, she kissed both rings.

"I promise you, Michael. I swear on these rings. It's finished." She leaned down and whispered it in his ear. "C'est fini, Michel."

Now she could cry. She lay her head on his chest and let the waves of grief - and of release - sweep over her. Cleansing tears. Healing tears. At last, she slept.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Everything hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed shut. He smelled vomit. Nearly gagged. Tasted old blood. Tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and swollen. Gave up the effort. There was a weight on his chest. He tried to lift his arm, but it was just too heavy. His fingers crawled over the sheet until he encountered another hand. He grabbed hold of one of the fingers just before the darkness descended.

The next time he woke, the weight was gone from his chest. So was the hand. Everything still hurt - even his scalp. He tried to call out, but all he heard was a faint croak. Tried again, with no better luck. Then someone slipped a hand under his neck and tilted his head forward. A glass touched his lips, and a few drops of water dribbled over the cracked dryness there. He concentrated on prying his lips apart, and a moment later the stickiness gave way to cooling softness as the water seeped into his mouth and trickled down his throat. He quivered in relief. Opened his mouth wider, hoping for more.

"Slowly, Michael," she said. At the sound of her voice, he began to cry. She was still here. He hadn't dreamed it after all.

The tears welled around the glue sealing his eyelids. He felt her fingers, dampened with water, wiping away the residue. He blinked reflexively, then tried again to open his eyes. This time he succeeded. Even through the fog that still clouded his vision, her face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"It's finished, Michael. C'est fini. And I'm still here. Jusqu'a la mort nous separait - until death separates us."

The tears overflowed, coursing down his cheeks. He tried to reach up to her, but all he managed was to grab hold of her shirt. She helped him then, lifting his arms to her face and holding them there so he could feel her own tears. He wiped them away with his thumbs.

"I love you," he said, but he couldn't be sure the words came out. They must have, though, because she replied, "I love you too, Michel Samuelle."

He tried to move - to get up - but it was beyond him right now. His head fell back on the pillow with a thump. He couldn't stop the grunt of pain that came from somewhere down in his gut.

"Just be still, Michael. Let me."

He felt her fingers working at the buttons on his shirt. Heard her unzip his pants. Slowly, gently, she removed his clothes. His skin felt raw, and a frisson shook him. Then she was passing a warm cloth over the front of his body. She placed a pillow on his chest, folded his arms around it, and rolled him over. She washed his back, then lower - all the way down the backs of his legs. He nestled his cheek into the softness of the cushion.

After patting him dry with a towel, she began to massage him. Beginning with his head and neck, her hands kneaded and molded every part of his body to her touch. Even his fingers and toes. Soft groans escaped his lips - he wasn't sure of pain or pleasure - or both. By the time she finished with him, he felt as though his very bones had dissolved. The last thing he remembered for a long time after that was her singing. Some children's nonsense song. It didn't matter what. Just the sound of her voice was more than enough for him.

Nikita lay beside him, more content and at peace than she could ever remember. She didn't feel sleepy. Or hungry. Or too cold. Or too hot. Everything was just right. (Like Goldilocks) she thought muzzily. It was fine - really fine - just to lie here listening. Listening to a pair of jays screeching and splashing in the fountain below. Listening to the faint voices of the proprietor and his son tending the garden. Listening to Michael breathe. Deep and slow.

So passed morning and evening, the first day. Genesis. And when the sun was low in the sky, he woke clear-eyed and eager for her touch. She spread her bounty before him and welcomed him to the feast.

* * * * *

They left the inn the next morning. He drove back down the winding road to Marseilles proper. She drifted in a half-sleep, eyes closed, not paying attention to the direction he was taking. It had been an exhausting - and fulfilling - night. His recuperative powers really were unusual. The car slowed, then stopped. She smelled jasmine. Opened her eyes, afraid of what she might see in his.

He wasn't looking at her, but at the wrought iron gate. To his surprise, he felt only a faint nostalgia, a dim regret, for all that had been lost. He could feel her eyes on him. Those drowning blue eyes. Pulling him into the deep waters of her love. He turned to her at last. Smiled as he felt the undertow take him.

"Let's go home," he said. And started the engine.

FIN

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