(A/N: This is a translation of the German story Gefangene der Angst by E.M.K.81, which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)


Discord before Christmas

At the beginning of December the parish priest came to call on the Vicomte. There was nothing remarkable in that; what was unusual was the reason behind his visit. The priest expressed great concern about the spiritual welfare of those in the chateau, given that the cook and the officer were clearly having an affair. He gave the Vicomte to understand that he should on no account permit the two of them to make a respectable house into a den of ill-repute.

The Vicomte was of the private opinion that immorality was not catching. But he promised that he would have a talk with the two wrongdoers.

He picked a particularly inopportune moment for this, for when he summoned the two of them there was first of all an uncommonly long wait, and then the couple appeared arm in arm, laughing and joking. When the Vicomte mentioned the priest's concerns, Babette was highly indignant.

"He's a fine one to talk! Why, he was the father of my middle daughter!"

Pierre broke out into uncommonly loud laughter. The whole business was to him clearly nothing more than a joke.

"Monsieur Bertrand, kindly control yourself!" snapped the Vicomte. "I have to protect the reputation of this house."

"Says the man who went and married a prima donna," retorted Pierre, before becoming abruptly sober and apologising on the instant. "That was completely uncalled-for. Forgive me, sir — sometimes I speak without thinking."

"If you have serious intentions where Babette is concerned..." began the Vicomte, but Babette contradicted him.

"Then I should marry him? Him? I wouldn't dream of it — he's a possessive egotist!"

"Many thanks," returned Pierre drily. "If I spend so much time with you, my dear, it's only because my dogs are so fond of you."

"Do you think I'd have taken up with you if I'd had any decent alternative?"

"Why, it's only out of pity that I..."

"Then it looks as if the priest has been worrying over nothing," interrupted the Vicomte, who took the squabble between them at face value. Then he saw that Babette and Pierre, far from appearing angry, looked as if they were enjoying themselves.

"I'm afraid you picked a bad moment to give us a talking-to, sir," explained Pierre. "You see, we've just shared a bottle of your best wine."

And the ill-assorted couple broke into giggles.

"You're simply impossible," Raoul said with a groan. "It was more than one bottle, wasn't it?"

Babette nodded shamefacedly, and Pierre pretended not to have heard. He was an expert at that; if there was something he didn't want to hear, he would turn a deaf ear to it.

"But you know I could have you sacked over this," Raoul pointed out. The effect of his words was as if he had just poured a pail of cold water over the two of them.

"Oh, you wouldn't do that?" begged Babette. "I've never made any secret of my way of life — it's never been a problem before."

Raoul cast an upward glance at the heavens for patience. "What's your suggestion?" Pierre asked him.

"Get married — or put an end to the affair. Or at least regularise things by getting engaged; an engagement can always be broken off again."

The other two thought this over for a while, then whispered together. "Very well," said Pierre finally, "we'll get engaged. But the marriage date will be set for the 31st of February."

"I'll marry you on February 31st," replied Babette, and they both burst into laughter.

"Go and sleep it off!" snapped Raoul. "In separate rooms — even if you care nothing for your own reputations, I have to take care of the reputation of this house. And if that means dismissing one of you, then I will."

Pierre made an accomplished bow, which would have made a better impression if he had not had the hiccups. "As Monsieur wishes. Come, my dear fiancée, be a good girl and come along. You can sew on my coat-buttons."

"Of course I will, my dear. And you can sharpen the knives for me." The pair of them went off arm in arm, still giggling foolishly, and Raoul shook his head over the business.

It was far from easy to run an estate. Raoul, who was accustomed to the same moral codes in Paris but also accustomed to the fact that affairs took place and were looked upon as normal, had no objections to secret goings-on; but the way the old couple were going about it was completely unacceptable.

"Congratulate us — we're engaged and getting married on the 31st of February!" the cook called out to everyone, and Raoul sighed. Couldn't the two of them just keep their affair secret like all the others? He had no doubt that — morals or no morals — more than enough liaisons went on and more than enough girls in the villages were single mothers, but Pierre and Babette seemed hell-bent on putting their affair on parade.

He just hoped that he wouldn't actually be forced to send one of them away. Babette was a marvellous cook, and she stood by Christine as unfailingly as if Christine had been her own daughter. Pierre was Marie's godfather and had saved Raoul's life, so he could scarcely dismiss him — quite apart from the fact that Pierre was irreplaceable.

Then, one day, the man who had gone to fetch the post for the chateau as usual from the village and was distributing it among the recipients came across a letter addressed to one "P.F.E. Bertrand".

"That can only be Pierre Bertrand," Raoul concluded, and instructed the man to pass the letter on to Pierre, who was taken entirely by surprise; he had never previously had any post and was not expecting any. But since there was no other Bertrand living at the chateau, he accepted the letter. A single glance at the handwriting turned him as white as a sheet. He vanished into his bedroom and locked himself in.

Shortly thereafter, he requested two days' leave of absence from the Vicomte. "I know I'm not entitled to it, but the letter contained an urgent message and I need to settle this affair," he said awkwardly. "I have no alternative."

Raoul was taken completely aback. "Can't you take care of it by post? I need you here to attend to our security — what if this is just some trick to draw you away?"

Pierre shook his head vigorously. "No. THIS handwriting, I know. I know the man who wrote it, and... he would never work together with Erik, never. Please, Monsieur de Chagny. Forty-eight hours is all that I ask."

Raoul sighed, and gave Pierre permission to leave.


When Pierre had ridden off, Christine found Babette weeping in the kitchen. She was stroking the three dogs, which looked equally miserable.

"What's wrong?" asked the Vicomtesse in amazement.

"Pierre is acting so strangely... He told me he might not come back, and in case that happened he'd left sealed letters with Dr Martin. The doctor is supposed to give them to you and to me if Pierre's not back here in seventy-two hours' time... oh, I'm so afraid I'll never see him again!"

Christine sat down next to the cook and put a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"Pierre Bertrand has got the better of many dangerous situations before," she offered as comfort. "I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow. And you know what? You ought to bake a cake for him. He'll be hungry when he gets back."

~o~

In fact, Pierre returned after almost exactly forty-eight hours. His stallion, Othello, was so exhausted that — most unusually for a horse — he lay down in his box to sleep, and Pierre could hardly walk. Babette flung her arms around his neck, overjoyed, and Pierre returned the embrace, although it looked as if he needed to hang onto Babette in order to stay on his feet.

"What was wrong?" Raoul asked in concern, his wife having informed him earlier of Babette's worries.

"I know I owe you an explanation, sir, but... over the last two days I've spent a full forty hours in the saddle. Just at this moment I can't clear my head. Couldn't we please postpone it until later?" And he looked so exhausted that no-one pressed him any further.

The next day, Pierre got back from Dr Martin the two letters he had prepared in advance, and put them on the fire. Raoul now insisted on an explanation.

"I've made a few enemies in the course of my life," said Pierre, "and this one is particularly dogged. He has been hunting me for far too long, but this time I outmanoeuvred myself and had to do what he demanded. You've no need to worry — it's nothing illegal, nothing forbidden, not even morally dubious. After all these years he is as tired of the game as I am, and in future I think we'll be leaving each other alone."

"You too have a pursuer?" exclaimed Raoul.

"Yes, unfortunately. But you have no need to fear him, sir. He would never endanger innocents."

"And why is he after you?"

Pierre squirmed as if he had suddenly been taken with pains in his belly. "Please don't insist on an answer," he said unhappily.

This time, however, the Vicomte decided to insist. "I killed his son," replied Pierre, and rubbed at his temples as if he suddenly had a headache.


After this episode, Pierre sank into a constantly irritable state. He couldn't endure having to talk to anyone or even to lay eyes on other people. The only one who could make him smile was Marie, whom he visited regularly as before and for whom he had carved a little wooden horse with which they played together. The game went as follows: Marie would throw the horse away and Pierre would bring it back to her, upon which she would hurl it away again, laughing, to be brought back. Otherwise no-one could get anywhere with Pierre, who was becoming ever more strained and nervy.

It didn't take long before another quarrel broke out that obliged the Vicomte to intervene. This time it was once again Pierre Bertrand and Maurice Dubois who were at loggerheads. Pierre had once again become worked up over the fermentation cellar, and Maurice retorted that the rebuilding could take place just as soon as their financial reserves were large enough.

"There have already been problems this autumn," Pierre complained.

"When? What problems? Seen by who? Names, dates, figures, facts!" demanded Maurice.

"Why, you... you book-keeper, you!" Pierre spat out, as if 'book-keeper' were an obscenity.

"With you everything is always so vague, nothing concrete," Maurice countered, "so how is anyone supposed to verify it?"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Raoul, "perhaps you could clarify for me exactly what the problem is."

"I was in the fermentation cellar this autumn and there was gas there," said Pierre. "I had a candle, and below knee-height it immediately went out."

"And when precisely was this?" said Maurice.

"How should I know? I don't even know what day of the week today is, and that makes no difference to me either."

"So there's no way I can possibly check, as yet again you're telling me something without figures, dates or facts," Maurice snarled.

"You're not going to make a bean-counter out of me," retorted Pierre.

"At heart you're a dishonest man, pure and simple — that's why you've got this aversion to figures and facts, because they'd convict you!"

With a cry of rage Pierre flung himself upon Maurice, seized him by the throat and pressed him against the wall.

"Stop it!" shouted Raoul, catching at Pierre's arm from behind and trying to pull him away. But to his surprise he found that Pierre was enormously strong and would not so easily let go.

"Let him go!" He drew the little pistol which Pierre had given him, and held it to Pierre's head. "I shall count to three. One..."

Pierre's reaction was lightning fast. He let go of Maurice and struck the weapon from Raoul's hand in a single movement which left the Vicomte staggering sideways. For a moment the three men stared at each other, Pierre beside himself with fury, the other two shocked and full of fear.

Then Pierre seemed to awaken from his rage. He went pale and trembled suddenly, then staggered a few steps back and sank to his knees. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"What was the meaning of that?" demanded Raoul, now furious in his turn.

"I'm sorry..." repeated Pierre, and seemed suddenly completely helpless.

"The man's a dangerous lunatic!" gasped out Maurice, who was slowly recovering. "You ought to get rid of him at once!"

"Yes... right now I think so too..." said Raoul thoughtfully, with a severe look at Pierre, who still knelt huddled on the floor. "Dubois, you may go. I'll deal with this."

Dubois left — not without throwing a scornful glance at Pierre, to which the latter paid no heed.

(continued...)