A/N- I live! And I haven't abandoned this one. I give it one more chapter. Probably. This one is short, but no one's reading, so who's complaining?


1813

Georges buried his face in his hands as another of Lucille's screams pierced the oppressive heat of noon. Things had been worse before Nanette had taken Marius to the park, though if this wasn't over by the time they returned Georges was sure he would go mad. He had been at war when his dear little wife had borne Marius, but this new child (who was to be called Charlotte) must be ripping his poor love apart. He wanted to leave the little hallway as much as he wanted to stay and support his Lucille.

The door at his back flew open, and Charlotte's haggard face appeared amidst a mane of flyaway gray hair. "More water, Colonel, dear," she panted, sweat gathering along the crinkles of her forehead. "She's just like her mother, poor thing; this isn't going well."

Georges obeyed mindlessly, rushing to the garden and seizing one of the old buckets they had filled beforehand, mindful not to let any of the water slosh over the edges in his haste. The old nursemaid's comment was the only thing on his mind: She's just like her mother. Hadn't Lucille's mother died giving birth to her? Wasn't that the case? Georges's lungs felt stiff, and he had to force air in to keep breathing. Lucille would be fine, he assured himself. She had done this once before with only little Nanette to help, years ago, and everything had gone well. The nursemaid would take care of things.

Charlotte met him at the door of the front room and took the bucket from his hands, slopping some of the water over onto his dusty shoes. "Can't I—?"

"No," she said irritably. "It isn't seemly. You'll stay here."

"But—"

The door closed as Lucille shrieked again. Georges felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he rested his hot forehead against the rough, cool wood of the door that stood between them.

This baby was going to kill her.