Longer chapter this round. Thank you everyone for their renewed interest!

Javert all but groaned when he awoke a third time to see the fairy woman sitting at her post by the window.

"I thought I was not a prisoner," he growled.

Mme. Chenille looked up from her botched knitting. "You are not," she said, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

"Because prisoners are the ones who are kept on constant guard, madame," he said. "Not honest men."

"Your fever rose in the night, monsieur," Mme. Chenille responded before turning her eyes back to her knitting. "It was necessary for me to be here to make sure you did not fall victim to it."

The question of why she did not simply let him "fall victim" to his fever momentarily crossed his mind, only to be replaced by the, quite correct, assumption that it was her duty to keep people alive just as it had been his to keep people within the confines of the law. Duty was something he could understand, even if it was not in his favor. Indeed, it was one of the few decent things about humanity that he could fathom. Thus, he merely turned his back to her and tried his best to turn a deaf ear to her clacking needles as she knit another scarf.

However, scarcely a minute had passed before the clacking stopped. "Are you thirsty, monsieur?" the woman asked. She looked at him with kind eyes and something of that weary goodwill that had first drove Javert from the room. "You did not drink anything yesterday or the day before."

If he was honest with himself, Javert did have to admit that he was thirsty. However, to accept anything from Mme. Chenille would be to accept charity, and he would rather die of dehydration than succumb to that pitiable state. "No, madame, I am fine," he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice and failing.

"I must assume that you meant 'Yes, madame, I am parched' since no other statement makes the remotest amount of sense," Mme. Chenille replied tautly. She set down her knitting and gave him a stern look as if daring him to try to cross her in the matter. When he did not respond, she smoothed out her skirt and got up from her seat. "I will go fetch some juice for you," she said. "Or would Monsieur prefer the quinine water?"

Javert did not reply. He was beginning to turn red again, as seemed to be the pattern over the last few days, and was trying to focus on not giving this glorified housewife a piece of his mind. It was her duty after all to make sure that he lived, and keeping him hydrated was part of such a bond. This did not make the situation any less irksome to our inspector, but it did give him the ability to hold his tongue.

"Juice it is then," she said before disappearing from the room. He could just barely make out the words "at least that'll get you some nourishment" as she went down the hall. It seemed that Mme. Chenille was also finding it difficult to hold her tongue.

Once he was sure that she had left, Javert sat up in bed. He instantly regretted this as it gave him a splitting headache. He grit his teeth and focused on the box by the window. If it did indeed contain linens or clothing of some sort, he could possibly wear that in place of his own confiscated clothes and leave. Thus, he forced himself out of bed and over to the window.

Had our inspector been in a more even frame of mind, he might have noticed that the window afforded a view of a little garden which furnished the hospital with some of its vegetables and herbs. Beyond it stood a couple of fruit trees near a stone wall that bordered the road and right up against this wall were some raspberry bushes—some of them already showing some early fruits. The inspector might also have noticed an elderly woman sitting on a bench under one of the trees and the peculiar manner in which she kept looking about her, as if she expected at any moment to be attacked.

As it was, Javert noticed none of these things—all of his attention having been focused on the box and its possible contents. He opened the box and cursed. Inside, were some rags (none anymore suitable to wear than the nightshirt he already had on) and a large basin presumably to hold water or the involuntary excretions of a sick man, or both. He slammed it shut and attempted to stand up, at the same time racking his brains for anywhere else he might acquire something suitable to wear. However, the combined effort of both standing and intense concentration on a problem was beyond his capability at the moment. One or the other had to be sacrificed, and, before Javert could make any decision on the subject, his body decided for him. He fell with a thud against the bed, striking his already aching head on the sideboard.

Through the blinding pain, he heard his name and felt a hand on his wrist. Next, he heard men's voices, saying something he could not quite make out, and then additional hands on his shoulders and under his legs. A sound mind and body would have reasoned that this must be the doctor and perhaps an assistant of his lifting him back onto the bed—as indeed it was. However, both were missing in M. l'Inspector. Pain shifted into panic. Scarcely knowing where to aim, he lashed out at his unknown captors—who in turn abruptly dropped him. The pain in his head increased. Something else was said and the next thing he knew a rag was being placed over his mouth. Darkness consumed him.

I realize that I have Javert passing out fairly frequently over the last few chapters. I would apologize, but for the fact that personal experience has taught me that when one is exhausted even a simple cold can cause effects similar to those I describe. I can only imagine that the flu, a much more serious ailment, would take a heavier toll on its victim than the common cold and have thus painted the circumstances in such a way.

Reviews appreciated as always!