Chapter Thirteen

Abrigaun was greatly incensed when he realized that Bouchard was narcotic-free; I knew his greatest worry was that Bouchard would escape and return to Paris to harass the de'Chagny's. During a brief whispered conference on the way to the coach, I reassured him I had Bouchard's word he would put himself totally under my authority. As he had acted the gentleman despite all of the queer starts and surprises thrown at him this day, I made the decision not to dose him.

At this, Abrigaun's complexion turned an unflattering shade of puce, whilst he stuttered and snarled of violence visited upon his person. Looking at his freshly rearranged cravat, spotless coat and perfectly brushed hair, I had the thought Abrigaun seemed determined to spike our smooth progress at the eleventh hour. I reminded him in a clear voice that a pistol aimed at the chest usually had a grand calming affect on disagreeably troublesome males.

The ambiguity of the statement did not escape Abigaun; he abruptly stopped blathering, with a unsure look in my direction. Bouchard's bark of laughter earned him a bitterly resentful glare from Abrigaun. I started for the coach, and wondered that I was losing control of the situation before I'd had it well in hand.

Two guards escorted us to the waiting travel coach, with another stationed on either side. I boarded first, securing the opposite door, Bouchard sat on my right. When Abrigaun actually joined us in the coach, taking the seat directly across from me, I gave him a questioning glance. "Abrigaun, are you going with us?"

"Would you like that, dear Mademoiselle? I could, you know." His expression was far too earnest for my comfort.

With a quick look at Bouchard, who, arms crossed, stared fixedly out the window, I said, "Surely, you are needed by your...umm...family here?"

Abrigaun gave a moue' of remorse, apparently at my lack of appreciation for his continued attentions. Sighing heavily, he said, "Mademoiselle, I am to accompany you and your…charge to Corbeil wherein I will see you settled in the private cars and on your way."

Having said that, he thumped the roof of the chaise wherein the driver called to his horses to 'Allez, bebe's! We were soon bowling along the fairly smooth road to Corbeil, with little to do but stare out the coach windows. Both gentlemen seemed thoroughly wrapped up in their own thoughts, leaving me little to do but nod along with the sway of the vehicle; I was feeling a trifle worn at the edges. Pulling off my bonnet and gloves, I lay my head back against the plush leather seatback, allowing the rocking of the carriage to carry me into a pleasant…if short lived…nap.

I suppose Abrigaun stood the silence for as long as he could, no doubt weighing his nascent disaffection with Jerrod Bouchard with his full-formed and resolute dislike for peace and quiet. Vaguely I heard his first question filtered through the fog of my own muzzy thoughts.

"So, Bouchard, you are comfortable with the arrangements made for you? Is there anything you feel is important to your…er… comfort in Italy?" Abrigaun gave an ambiguous chuckle here.

"Monsieur Abrigaun, I look forward to leaving Paris, and indeed France, behind me. I do hope there is a piano or such instrument where we go. I feel I need to return to my music as soon as possible."

I was again struck by the beauty of this man's voice. He spoke English like a native. I found that interesting.

Abrigaun's voice became conciliatory in tone. "I cannot insure a piano awaits you, but this, it can be remedied immediately, yes? Are there not Italian-made pianos suitable, Monsieur Bouchard?"

"There are indeed."

Both gentlemen subsided, and I felt Bouchard shift on the bench.

Abrigaun tapped his foot for a few moments, before launching his next conversational maneuver. "And are you…comfortable with Mademoiselle Butler as your companion, Monsieur Bouchard? I realize that you may feel some discomfort when around a female, having as little experience as you have…"

Herein I awoke fully, as Bouchard's voice changed from that lovely warm timbre to something that immediately struck warning bells throughout my consciousness.

"My contact and experience with females is not any of your business, Monsieur, nor do you have any idea of what I have and have not!"

I lifted my head from the soft corner of the bench, to find Bouchard glaring at Abrigaun. Noticing I had 'joined' the conversation, Bouchard shot narrowed eyes to me, his face shifting into a condescending sneer. He now spoke with a smooth nastiness that was all for my benefit. "However, since you have inquired, I must say that I feel Mademoiselle Butler is a very poor choice of 'companion'. Is this de'Chagny's revenge for my temerity in loving Christine? A dry, skinny spinster with the personality of a prison matron? Why, the woman is old enough to be your mother, Abrigaun!"

If I was to be shocked, he would have to do much better than that. I noted his body posture and facial expression. He had quite obviously put his right side to the fore, and his eyes were frigid. They were a lovely pale green, large and well-formed with thick dark lashes above and below. I was amazed at how they could shift colors with his moods. I noted I was seeing again the man in the cell: the wolfish grin, and ersatz urbanity that so thinly covered his intense antagonism.

Abrigaun, however, was not much impressed with Bouchard's eye color. He had decided to take complete umbrage at the slurs offered me. Wide-eyed and apparently silenced by such outrageous speech, Abrigaun was doing his best to stand up in a coach that was less than 5 feet from floor to ceiling. I firmly pushed him back into his seat and told him in a no-nonsense manner, "Abrigaun, do not let this man affect your good nature. He is trying to upset me, and he will not get it done with names and insults."

Abrigaun sat, but his expression was anything but conciliatory. "Mayhap my steel though his liver would recall proper manners toward a lady for him…" he shouted in my closest ear.

"No, no, Abrigaun. You may not call him out; he has no sword, nor do I wish you to fight with him." I looked at Bouchard, who appeared quite amenable to a duel. In his present poor condition I cannot see how he thought he would prevail, much less survive! Then again, perhaps he did not particularly care.

Abrigaun mopped at his face with his handkerchief. "Mademoiselle, I fear that you will find he does this always…attacks without the warning or reason! I am expecting him to…to bite!"

Bouchard snorted and nodded his head, flashing his teeth.

I patted Abrigaun's hand. "Monty, I do not believe Bouchard bites. Growls loudly and snaps his jaws noisily, perhaps..." I did not lower my voice, and gave Bouchard a repressing look as I said it.

His eyebrow and lips twitched, but he shut his eyes, and once again, the voice of civility, he spoke. "Mademoiselle Butler, I suggest that you go home and get yourself married, like a good girl. Let Abrigaun's 'Patron' find another demon such as myself to which to leg shackle me. I can offer you nothing but a great deal of unhappiness."

He dropped his head back against the squabs, as if fatigued by the entire prospect.

I turned and faced him as squarely as I could, considering we both shared the same bench. "Monsieur Bouchard, do not think your graceless comments on my physical, chronological and…ah… marital status are going to change anything. You are my responsibility and the sole benefactor of all my attention for the next twelve months. The sooner you allow that to become gospel in your mind, the better those months will go. I am not asking you to entertain me, Monsieur, nor will I entertain you, whatever you might think." I felt my cheeks grow pink at that, especially as Bouchard chose to turn and slowly wink at me.

Firming my chin and gritting my teeth in the face of his smirk, I growled, "And yes, 'prison matron' will do very well, if you so wish to describe me."

Bouchard's eyes were positively alight with glee.

Abrigaun leveled a hard look at Bouchard, "Remind yourself, Bouchard, of what Mademoiselle Butler's duties are. You will treat her at all times with respect and gentlemanly comportment, or I promise you, I will..."

"I understand completely, Monty. I will keep my grubby hands off the woman and refrain from being…disagreeably troublesome. I have no wish to have a bullet sent through my lung."

I shoved my bottom inelegantly back into the seat. "Hush, both of you. I do not like this talk of anybody... shooting anybody. Monty, I am sure Monsieur Bouchard understands perfectly well..."

Abrigaun hissed angrily, "I do not like his comment on your…age." The man still looked ready to thrash Bouchard. I grasped Abrigaun's fisted hand and patted it.

"I have heard nothing particularly insulting, Monty. And although I am possibly a bit long in the tooth, I do not believe I was so precocious a child that I could be your mother."

Abrigaun's eyes swept to mine and he visibly gulped. "My sweet Mademoiselle Aislyne!" (He pronounced my name Ahhzzz-ZLEEN), "The man's eyes…they suffer la vision déformationreflected in his mind. You are but a lovely woman in the very flower of womanhood, an ageless beauty, graceful and…"

"Oh, Monty…Abrigaun!…please!" Sick with embarrassment at the man's overdone flattery, I silently cursed his philandering sense of timing. Had he no shame?

Giving a rude snort, Jerrod Bouchard drawled, "I hope you two will not be making love all the way to Corbeil. I will have to crawl out the window to the top of the coach. Moreover, I find him to be highly duplicitous. 'Gentlemanly comportment' my arse…"

Abrigaun kept to his side of the coach after I violently blocked him from attacking Bouchard, shoving him gracelessly back into the seat and shaking a threatening finger in his face. Bouchard returned to his study of passing scenery; his expression dark.

I was feeling as if I had just been tipped on end. I realized that no matter how much I tried, or thought I understood him, Jerrod Bouchard was never going to make it easy to do so.

**********
Men, being men, argue and fuss, especially when there is someone present to watch. 30 minutes later, they are drinking from the same bottle, and sharing dirty jokes, the absolute best of cronies.

Obviously, that would not be happening here. Bouchard was brooding, looking out the window at the passing countryside. Abrigaun was glaring at his boots.

Moreover, I felt that having nothing to say to each other was a good thing between these two. I again set my head into the fat, overstuffed curve at the corner of the seat, and after requesting to the general area I be allowed to nap without distraction, I proceeded to do just that.

Abrigaun was again left with Jerrod Bouchard as his only conversational gambit. With my defection, he was at point non-plus, and no doubt the silence was galling. Opening with a general statement on the fine weather despite the fact that it was merely March, I dozed fitfully to the drone of calm male voices. Weather led to politics. I slipped into a catnap.

Just because I was napping did not mean I was not, on some level, listening, however. And although I was desultory in paying any real attention at first, especially as they chose to speak French this time, words began to engage my attention. I snapped to wakefulness upon registering this: "Monsieur Bouchard, I have great respect for your work. I have visited the…er…mumbleplace where you were formerly mumbleblah, and it has hmmmmm declined since your incarceration, despite its blah-mumble and new managers.

"Thank you, Monsieur Abrigaun, for your…kind words. Few people understood the part I played in the running of the theater, nor the mmm-umbleblah mumbleblah and direction I provided. I might ask how it is you know of my… mumblemumble blah?"

I worked very hard to keep my breathing 'normal' for a napping person, but my cow-like ears were probably quivering in a highly noticeable manner with the effort to hear and understand.

Abrigaun adopted a low, near whisper, making it just that much harder to comprehend his rapid French. "I have been a blah of the arts for many years, Monsieur. I was actually present mumble-blah mumble-blah for the…ah…mumble-blah in November two years past."

Abrigaun chuckled in that totally asinine fashion men use when they are discussing things they consider are best 'kept from the ladies.' "Monsieur, I cannot express properly the thrill the…er…your performance of the...mumblemumble-blah gave the young lady I was escorting. She was quite affected, if you catch my meaning. Eh?"

Abrigaun chortled again, and I nearly snorted in derision. My curiosity, however, was in a hard, lathered gallop now!

Bouchard merely grunted. There was silence for a few moments, and I wondered if Bouchard had given Abriguan one of his Sphinx-like stares...the atmosphere had acquired a frigid feel to it. No doubt Abrigaun in his effort to engage Bouchard in happy discussion had instead brought up a sore point from the past. I stored what I could understand of that conversation away for intense rumination later.

Whatever Bouchard's demeanor, Abrigaun was not to stay suppressed for long. Three-finger drumming could be heard, as if on the top of a stiff stovepipe hat, which fashion-conscious Abrigaun wore. His Italian boots began a soft tattoo upon the floor. I heard him shift in the squabs, as if positioning himself for another assault. When he finally spoke, his tone was of a serious, one might say, lecturing tone.

"I hope you understand the…hmm…mm…mumble effort undertaken to mm…mumble harm's way. I ask that you give all due blahhhh...mumble mm…mumble that my... eh...patron has given you. Of course, we will speak no more of this before the… um…ah-hem."

Now, that was interesting…I wondered if I was the 'um…ah-hem'? Bouchard's answer was neutrally respectful. I was impressed by his restraint in the face of Abrigaun's condescension.

"I am very appreciative of mumble mumble mummumble blahblah to me by your patron. Please mummumble gratitude to him, or her, as the case may be."

There was a beat of silence, then Bouchard added, "Perhaps you can now be mummumble me know mummumble mumble is, now that we are safely mumble to Italy?"

Did I hear the tiniest hint of threat?

There was vast silence, with neither gentleman moving. I could feel the tension, and Bouchard's breathing was becoming louder by the moment. Recent history told me this meant he was becoming upset.

Abrigaun's lack of response was extraordinary enough that I decided to interrupt before hostilities again ensued.

Yawning widely, I stretched my arms carelessly to the sides, thumping Bouchard soundly on the shoulder with my right fist, and jamming my left hand into the carriage door. I gasped in pain and rocked back into the squabs, breathing several less than ladylike words, the worst of the lot in Gaelic, thank Heaven, (and thank you Granny, you evil besom'!)

I should explain…I meant to 'nudge' Bouchard, not pound him in the arm, and ditto putting my fist nearly through the coach door. However, as a man once said, "These things do happen…"

And it was most effective in defusing the situation between my fellow travelers.

To my immediate shock and embarrassment, Bouchard murmured "Ugly words from sweet lips, Madame." In Gaelic…and laughed softly, doubtless at the stupidly stunned look on my face. Every part of my body grew hot and I felt my brain and mouth disassociate. Helplessly I heard myself say, in the 'ald tongue, "You understood what I said? Oh, *#*&!"

Bouchard started to laugh louder, this time covering his face with one hand, and wrapping the other about his chest. I could see that he was struggling to contain himself, and my glare in his general direction had the delightful result of sending him off, beyond his control. I was overcome with the sight of Bouchard in the grips of genuine hilarity and his deep, musical belly-laugh filled the carriage. I started giggling, only to slip into the vastly unladylike, facially-contorting bray that passes for laughter in the Butler female.

Abrigaun stared at us both as if we were insane. He then gave a shout of consternation, pointing at my still smarting hand, "Mademoiselle Butler! You are bleeding!"

Mid-cackle I pulled my gaze away from Bouchard, to find that, yes indeed, I was bleeding. I had caught myself on something sharp in my contact with the door; the result was blood streaming steadily down my arm inside my sleeve, and dripping off my elbow. I nearly cursed again, but made do with "Oh, nooooo" in regret for my lovely dress. Blood was so very difficult to remove from printed cotton fabric! A pool of blood occupied my lap, no doubt soaking my new underskirts and chemise. I pulled my sleeve up my arm, and Bouchard bent towards me to look as I turned my arm to inspect the wound. A deep, jagged cut began amid the fleshy heel of my left palm and continued another three inches up and across the center of my wrist.

Abrigaun was digging furiously through his pockets seeking a handkerchief, his eyes squeezed shut, panting like a hard-run foxhound. He now occupied the back half of the bench, having all but retracted his legs into his body to avoid the dripping blood.

The wound was gaping and the blood seemed to well up and run down my arm with frightening volume. I sucked in my breath hard as all the visual cues finally yelled to my brain 'This hurts!' "Ehhhhhhooowwwwww!"

In less time than it takes to tell, Bouchard rose from the seat and turned, grabbed my bleeding arm, spun me about face, and yanked me across the coach to fall onto the opposite seat with him. A large, white handkerchief appeared in his hand, and was swiftly wrapped neatly and snuggly about my left hand and wrist. He then placed my hand, palm down, upon his thin, hard thigh and leaned firmly upon it.

"Madame, am I hurting you?" His face turned to me, and I realized that I was sitting to his ravaged right side.

I kept my eyes firmly upon his, "Monsieur, it hurts, naturally. I cannot say that you have affected it one way or another." His attention returned to my hand.

Abrigaun, now sitting next to me, had shoved himself to the very corner of the bench. I smiled reassuringly at him and was rewarded with a tentative pat on the (right) arm. "Mademoiselle, I so am sorry for my behavior, of such cowardice. Blood, it is the blood, I cannot…." He faded sadly at this point, having noticed the long steak going down the front of my walking dress, culminating into an impressive pool of it on the floor of the coach. He moved to the opposite bench, gingerly avoiding the blood on the floor and thoroughly wiping down the door and leather seat with his own handkerchief.

Bouchard spoke grimly, "Blood is naught but salts, iron, and oxygen in a liquid medium. Your fear and revulsion is irrational in the fact that you have nearly 10 pints of the stuff rushing through your veins, Monty." Bouchard looked sideways at Abrigaun, and gritted his teeth, saying softly, "Or not…"

Abrigaun did not even bother to look insulted. He sank to the back corner of the opposite bench. I angrily hushed Bouchard, "That was not necessary. There are many who suffer such at the sight of blood, and you do n…."

"Madame, you have done enough refereeing this day. Please quiet yourself or you will undo my good work, and the bleeding will resume."

I subsided immediately.

Beyond the faint sounds Bouchard made during his examinations, no one spoke. I found myself looking into Bouchard's face, while he fussed with the bloody lace on my sleeve, and periodically checked the pulse in my fingers, and rate of my bleeding. Several times he slid his eyes over to meet mine, and I found myself blankly staring into them. I was aware of no pain, but shock had obviously set in as my heart was racing and I had to consciously rate my breathing to avert hyperventilation. This took all of my attention.

Finally, Bouchard eased up on the pressure, and gently pulled the handkerchief away from the gaping wound, which immediately began seeping again, but certainly not as before. His touch was gentle, his inspection knowledgeable. "You need this stitched, Mademoiselle. This is a very deep, long cut, and you may have nicked the ulnar artery."

I looked down at the insulted appendage and had to agree. The fat layer down to the pale fascia over the muscle gaped widely on my palm, and the wound was nearly three inches end to end. I then noticed I had bled on Bouchard's fine grey trousers. His hands were similarly bloodstained. Things began to go a bit spotty, and I fought it off by breathing deeply and calmly.

Aware of two sets of eyes fixed unblinking upon my face, I smiled at both gentlemen reassuringly. "Monsieur Bouchard, I think the stitching can wait until we arrive in Orly, later this evening. I am more worried about the threat of infection! Hopefully there will be suitable care available somewhere there. If nothing else serves, I can do the job myself."

Abrigaun spoke with a note of abject horror in his voice, "And you would do so? Mademoiselle! I am shocked that you are not overcome now as it is!

I smiled at Abrigaun, "Monsieur, I have frequently had to close wounds on my patients, and so I have no fear of needles. However, I will admit I do not relish the idea."

To be totally truthful, I am afraid the thought of it made the bright dancing spots return to before my eyes….

Bouchard pushed me firmly back against the squabs with his free hand, bloody as it was. "You have bled heavily, Madame, and it is important you do not overtax yourself. We will locate somebody to do this in Orly. If not, perhaps we can send one of the mounted men ahead to Corbeil to have a doctor waiting."

His voice was clipped and he looked most uncomfortable with me. "I beg you put your head back. I will keep pressure on the wound."

No doubt he thought me nothing but troublesome. "I am not an invalid, Monsieur! I can manage to hold it thus myself. Besides, you cannot think to hold my hand all the way to Corbeil, surely!" I was beginning to feel woozy again, however, and no doubt my tremulous grin and shaky right hand did not escape Bouchard's notice. He summarily wrapped his right arm about my shoulders and pulled me against him, then firmly tipped my head down. "Now, shut your eyes, and your mouth, Butler. You are turning an unflattering gray color, am I not right, Monty?"

My last conscious vision was of Abrigaun's look of dull resentment.

***********

I have adopted a mantra for those moments when I am near overcome with anger, frustration, or humiliation: "The Opera Ghost is dead; I am a man and I live! The Phantom is dead; I am a man and I live!" Perhaps that sounds trite, but it recalls for me the epiphany I experienced while locked on Ward Four of the Rois, having received my Order of Execution.

The Phantom is truly dead. Some hapless thug faces execution tomorrow morning, bearing the sobriquet as well as sins of Erik De'Carpentier, former ghost-in-residence of the Opera Populaire, the Phantom of the Opera...

I, Jerrod James Bouchard, the man, have survived. At the tender age of 44 years I am born again, as this hideously ill-favored but newly-fashioned man who is now under the guardianship of one Aislyne Mharie Butler, Governess, Nurse Companion, and Spinster.

I received my first 'lesson' today, directly from the stern rosy lips of My Lady Butler, i.e., I am not mad, crazy, insane, a twisted monster. No…I am 'maladjusted.'

I scoffed. What nonsense is this? Are my 'coping skills' to be compared to the set screw on a gaslight, or the focus wheel for a microscope? Have I to be but…recalibrated to rejoin the living? I strongly resisted the desire to advise Madam Butler that indeed, I believed HER set screw had worked a bit loose while racketing across France with de'Chagny and his idiot lawyer!

I refrained, however. And I find in her explanation a kernel of sense. For it is God's own truth I have learned little of the ways of Civilized Man. My teachers and role models to date have been a hateful mother, the brutal Gypsies, a murderously ambitious and doubtless mad Persian ruler…and the world of the Paris Opera. For many years, the only 'society' I have experienced is that of the actors on the opera stage, with their elitist nobility, old-school manners and amoral ways, both on and off the stage.

As it stands now, I have much to learn on being a member of my own species. And I must reaffirm that I do, indeed want a life beyond the grave I occupied beneath the Paris Opera.

As long as that life will include my music. I care, now, for nothing else.

Although…I would know who has taken the trouble to save me from death, perhaps to thank them. More likely, I would demand why this innocent woman is sacrificed, thrown into the company of a suspected killer and madman, given responsibility for my welfare! She knows naught of the Paris opera I once 'terrorized' as the Opera Ghost, as the Phantom. She knows nothing of my violent behavior and uncontrollable anger!

I become angry again when I think of what de'Chagny has now done. Sending a woman, albeit an outright novelty of a woman…to play governess to a man who at one time executed innocent and guilty alike by the dozens, at the pleasure of the Shah of Persia!

I want my hands around the neck of de'Chagny, his weasel lawyer, and the mastermind that bankrolled this entire charade'…by God, I especially want him. Fools!

I realize my heated thoughts have turned my gaze upon said 'weasel lawyer', who presently sags upon the bench, snoring softly. I could snap his neck so neatly he would never wake up…

…Butler's head abandons my arm again to lean against the bench back. I do not replace her head upon my shoulder this time; she is feeling very unhappy with herself at the moment, and does not like the idea of being thought 'weak'. Her transparency is amazing…it is as if she whispers her very thoughts into my ear. However, she refrains from looking at me now, and that is best.

Her eyes…for a time I found I could not avoid them nor ignore the near-forgotten obsession they pulled from the very depths of my wasted soul. I had needed to grit my teeth and fight it, reminding myself her behavior was caused by shock, stress…not her weakening life force.

When I check upon her wound once again, she stares at my hands for a time, sucking her breath in upon my rewrapping her arm with a clean handkerchief. I look at her, helpless not to do so, and she returns my gaze and smiles. "I do not know how to thank you…I would have been helpless without you here…" There is that within those eyes that proves the opposite.

Looking into her eyes, I realize I am the helpless one. I nod curtly and look out the window.

It is exactly as Butler stated: I am who I am now. I declare once more within my thoughts, "The Phantom is dead; I am a man and I live! I am a man…"

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

Four horses drew our chaise and we made good time to the first road inn at Orly, where we were to break our daylong fast and switch horses. The coaching inn was called the "Dancing Bull" and seemed to hold all the charms of a cow byre, indeed. It smelled, there were flies, and I would not have been surprised at all to have found cattle stabled in the kitchen.

Our inquiries for a doctor or surgeon were met with blank stares. Finally, an old farmer clued us to the fact that in these rural areas there was usually a woman who took care of such things, for human and animal, as needed. An enterprising youth was tipped to fetch the local version to the inn while we were served our evening meal. My wounded arm was throbbing steadily now, and I was becoming terrified of the thought of a bewhiskered, dirty, lice-ridden 'cailleach (old woman) wielding a rusty needle upon my flesh. I went back out to the coach and fetched my medical case.

Hungry as I was, it was not enough to eat much of the positively evil food from the kitchen of the Dancing Bull. In our private salon, I picked at my meal of unidentifiable baked poultry, punitively cooked vegetables and dry potato. The bread was edible if slathered with enough of the butter; there was just not enough butter, or bread, for that matter. Monsieur Bouchard ate with neat, polite enthusiasm, and I nearly offered him my plateful after I had visually inspected and rejected the contents. Abrigaun sat at the far end of the table and ignored us both, in an obvious snit.

I moved to a quiet parlor at the back of the inn to await the 'doctor', my medical case between my feet, earnestly repeating to myself that I would not run for the safety of the coach. A few minutes later Bouchard appeared in the doorway. At my inquiring look, he sighed heavily, saying, "I thought you might wish to have a hand to squeeze while you are…doctored. And, naturally, the woman will speak only French…"

I smiled my gratitude of such manly consideration, only to hear "Abrigaun cannot bring himself to do it…obviously." Bouchard then sat next to me and we waited in silence until the innkeeper's wife brought the woman in to see to me.

She immediately identified herself, "Je suis Bete Grosse'", and started asking me many questions, seemingly uninterested in merely looking at the wound. I opened my mouth, thinking to tell her "Je ne parle aucun francais " when she reached to inspect my hand, and pulling it back, I asked her, in very simple French, "Vous êtes-vous lavé les mains?"

She looked at me for a long moment, then began to complain in the rapid fire French that I would probably never understand, throwing her hands up in the air. I had a good idea of what she was saying, having run into the Medical Establishment's knee-jerk distain for the precepts of Joseph Lister. I calmly told her, in childishly styled French, that I wished her to thoroughly wash her hands, to cleanse the wound with boiled cool water and then dilute isopropyl alcohol, and to use my own carefully boiled instruments, thread and needles. She hissed, snapped her fingers at me, and turned to leave.

Bouchard intervened, gently capturing the woman's arm, then her ear, speaking calmly in his deepest and most honeyed voice. After a few moments of back and forth with her, Bouchard told her, "For me, please humor this silly woman. She has a fear of tiny beasts that might be living on your hands, and the thread and needle. You will be paid handsomely, and I will be forever in your debt."

At the finish of his earnest request, his hand was upon his breast. His left side was to her, and he all but batted his long lashes...

The woman washed her hands vigorously, and further agreed to help me thoroughly cleanse my wound, an experience I do not wish ever to repeat. The washing out of the wound was bad enough, water boiled yes; cooled, not near enough. Bouchard assisted with the application of the dilute alcohol and boiled water mixture I use for wound cleaning and irrigation, and I could no more stop from bawling like a baby than I could cursing roundly in English and Gaelic.

Madame Grosse' also agreed to use my own kit of boiled scissors, silk thread and needles, admiring the way they were pre-threaded and wrapped into sets in boiled linen wraps. Bouchard held my right hand throughout, although it seemed he did more squeezing than I did…

It was a painful experience, but I openly admired Madame's stitching, and complemented her on her technique in the middle of the ordeal. Added with the healthy amount of francs I pressed into her hands, she was well pleased, and left with a wide, satisfied smile.

I promptly staggered outside through a side door and was helplessly sick, losing what little supper I had been able to swallow. Bouchard was kind enough to stand at the door, keeping an ear upon me, without pressing unwelcome assistance while I was so indisposed. He handed me a wet cloth and a near-full glass of stout brandy upon my return. I washed my face, rinsed my mouth out with and drank the brandy while Bouchard capably finished my wound care by applying the carbolated cream to the wound to speed healing and keep the pressure pad from sticking. A clean bandage and wrapper from my kit… pinned to keep everything tight, and I was done and done in. I thanked him effusively for aiding me during the ordeal, becoming tearful with gratitude. I received his 'Sphinx Bouchard' look.

He fetched my cloak, and we joined Abrigaun and both our guards before the inn, where the coach with fresh horses awaited us. We had approximately 13 kilometers yet to travel to Corbeil, and would be traveling through the night. My little ordeal had put us over an hour behind schedule.

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

Once the brandy wore off, I awoke to find that the sway of travel had the desired effect on the men; they went to sleep. The coach, although roomy, had only two heavily upholstered benches. Abrigaun having secured one bench for himself, was comfortably stretched out. Poor Bouchard could only lean his head against the padded wall and put his legs out along the floor, because of me. Presently, he was sound asleep, and slipping steadily down the wall, and would soon to end up on the floor. Scooting towards him just a bit, I picked up his booted feet and lay his legs across my lap, although as tall as he was, it would be a close fit. He never woke, just slid down the wall, settled his head in the corner and hid the right side of his face. Even in sleep, he hid his face.

I caught the occasional nap as we traveled through the night, but found myself wakeful for much of the journey. To occupy my mind, I watched Bouchard in the pale light from the lantern swaying from the ceiling over our heads. It is amazing how all men most resemble little boys when they sleep; faces soften, mouths become loose and vulnerable. And noises issue from them that are not altogether charming. Abrigaun kept snoring in a window-rattling fashion. I kicked his boot every time he started, and he would be silent for at least 5 minutes. No wonder his wife was not bereft without him home.

Bouchard, however, slept quietly, or if he were face up, faintly 'purred' from the highest nasal defect, something for which I fought the impulse to find 'endearing'. Squashed up against the corner of the seatback and bottom, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he was eerily silent. Every once in a while his legs would quiver and I'd find myself holding them so I would not receive more bruises across the front of my hipbones from where he had knocked me. For a man his size, his legs were incredibly bony; his shinbones knifelike, and he had no calf muscles I could discern. I was regretting my good intentions seriously after the third hard rap against my left hip.

Yes, of course, I know it was unseemly for me to have the gentleman's legs across my lap! I would have gladly pulled his boots and rubbed his feet, if he had so requested. We had just spent an amazing day together, we two, and I was feeling more than a little in charity with the man. I settled my travel quilt across my body and over his legs, stretching it up over him until it was just below his chin. He seemed to relax more in sleep when so covered.

Would Abrigaun not be shocked if he saw this!

The question I asked myself: How sorry would I be for having taken this scandalous assignment two weeks from now?"

Bound for heretofore unknown territory, I was far from everything I held dear, and totally outside my experience. The weakness I had succumbed to upon injuring myself had put Bouchard in the position of being in charge, and I was shocked to realize I had relinquished it gladly. Bouchard could have taken advantage of the situation in so many ways, and yet…he had not.

Bouchard himself had proven to be an arbitrary and confusing personality, and it was not surprising to realize he could also be very manipulative. Abrigaun suffers from a surfeit of good humor and even temper, yet Bouchard pushed him to the edge in seconds, using me ruthlessly to do so…

And then there was Bouchard's actions and reactions toward me, his 'armed nanny' and 'prison matron'. One minute he appeased me with his warm, heartfelt deference, and the next he was snarling invective and insults to my face. I would need to keep on my toes, emotionally speaking, around this man.

I would be forever in his debt for his deft handling of the dry, skinny spinster's bloody run-in with the carriage door, and all that followed. I have no doubt that without his intervention, Dame Grosse' would have walked out and left me to suffer, little beasties and all.

I could insist it was compassion that compelled him to help me, yet what sensitivity would lead him to offer his hand for pain, yet allow me face-saving solitude while I lost my dinner? And afterwards to offer a wet cloth and a generous glass of good strong brandy. A rare, thoughtful gentleman, Jerrod Bouchard.

But... I will admit to becoming a trifle self-conscious since his 'dry, skinny spinster' remark. Somehow 'dry' caught me off-guard. Skinny was a bit harsh, also. Naturally, I feel confident that I know exactly where all this originated, knowing his spiteful words were to repel me, to send me away, to murder the nascent relationship between us, as much as provoke Abrigaun.

I am too familiar with the process, because that is what we do, he and I; we keep everybody outside the point of any real intimacy by whatever means necessary.

The thing that had compelled me to take the assignment…not the money, travel, or even the compassion for a young couple bedeviled by a past entanglement...is still there. And several times today I looked into Jerrod Bouchard's eyes to find it remains: the darkness, the 'jeh raie' (dark child); the heart sickness and dying hope of a lost soul.

I wonder if he knows his eyes hold all the sadness of the world?