Rules of the game (Disclaimer): Be honest, haven't you ever broken the
rules in a game? Has it done any harm? But it certainly was fun, wasn't
it? So I have a little fun breaking the rules of Paramount who invented
the Killing Game and everything Trek. However, I do not intend any
copyright infringement. I just do this to have fun and to share this with
others (who in turn nurture my ego ... at least I hope so).
I'm hoping you enjoy this.
This part is rated PG (for smoking and drinking alcohol and gaping)
Coeur de Lion
By Katie
Chapter 1
Her Late Husband
The only light in the *Coeur de Lion* was coming
from the bar, where Mademoiselle deNeuf and Catherine were
busy counting the taking of this evening. Some of their guests
had spent a lot of money on beverages and had given Séverine
a special tip, others had spent less money. But this wasn't of
interest to Catherine as long as everybody enjoyed themselves
and forgot about the war for a few hours. As long as there
was enough money left over for the resistance, she didn't
really care whether people were generous or tight-fisted. At
first, she'd thought she'd never be able to let Germans into her
night-club, let alone take their money. But Paul, her African
bartender, had convinced her otherwise. He knew that the
Germans paid well, even if they seemed not to cherish the
wines and eau de vies. It was important that they brought
them their money, and after a short while Catherine even
enjoyed taking their money. If only they knew what she was
taking their money for ... but this didn't mean she liked them
having in her night-club. Most of those Nazis didn't have any
behavior and manners and most of them didn't hesitate to
show their contempt for the French ostentatiously. It didn't
comfort her in any way that these were times of war. She had
to act against her principles, but she was glad she had Paul's
logic to rely on. His point of view was very objective, which
was in fact sometimes as annoying as it was useful.
"How much is it?" she asked and puffed on her
cigarette.
"Too little," Séverine answered. She looked in
annoyance at the woman standing across the counter.
"Catherine, I take it you wanted to stop smoking? Isn't there
enough smoke in here, six evenings a week?"
Catherine smiled wryly and put out the cigarette in the
chrome ashtray next to her. "I know, I know," she sighed,
releasing the smoke between her pursed lips. As usual the
dark red lipstick looked as though she'd just put it on.
Séverine, though familiar with this business, couldn't help
wondering how Catherine managed to look fresh even after a
long night. "This is my last one, I promise."
"Same thing as yesterday and the day before," the
blonde woman groaned. It was hopeless. Catherine was the
most stubborn woman she'd ever known, but if it hadn't been
for her stubbornness she'd never have managed to become the
owner of a renowned night-club.
Just then, somebody knocked vehemently at the door.
Séverine turned and looked in the direction of the door. Who
could that be at this time of night? Everybody knew that they
were closed. Thanks to their relations to the Germans
stationed in their town they were allowed to be opened longer
than the closing time. Thanks to their relations to the Germans
they also were pretty sure that none of them would ever
suspect them of working actively against them in the
underground, using their money to buy weapons and other
strategic devices.
Catherine opened a drawer and took out a small gun
which she hid behind her back. Just then, the person outside
knocked even harder against the windowpane in the door.
"Oui, oui! J'arrive tout de suite! I'm coming!" Catherine
shouted with her powerful voice at the impatient pain in the
neck. Nevertheless did she go to the door at a normal pace.
She disappeared behind the porch that was secluded from the
lounge by a milky windowpane. Séverine took a step or two
in the same direction, ready to help her friend.
"Who's there?" she heard Catherine ask briskly.
"It's me, Jean. Catherine, please open, I have a guest
for you," Jean, their all-around-handy-man and chef explained.
It had been his night off. Just like Catherine and Séverine, he
lived in one of the small apartments upstairs the *Coeur de
Lion*. Catherine turned the keys and let Jean and their guest
enter. She eyed the stranger suspiciously when he entered her
night-club behind Jean. He was tall, had a strong frame and
his pitch-black hair was combed back and covered with glossy
hair-cream. He wore fashionable civilian's clothes whose style
she couldn't tell. It wasn't quite French. Who was this guy?
Anyway, he looked good. His skin was tanned, she could see
this when they approached the counter. His eyes were dark
and sparkling and she could quite well imagine the dimples his
delicately curved lips would elicit when he would smile.
Catherine realized in shock that he was the spitting
image of her late husband.
"So," Séverine said, with one of her eyebrows raised.
She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and eyed the
stranger no less suspiciously than the other woman had done
earlier. Catherine's reaction to the doppelgänger of Maurice
was subtle, but obvious enough that Séverine had no doubt
that their plan was going to work. Jean hadn't promised them
too much for once.
"This is Captain Frank Miller of the US Army," Jean
introduced the stranger to the women.
Catherine hid her surprise better than she'd thought
herself being capable of. Nevertheless was she glad that Jean
pushed a chair behind her so she could sit down. If she hadn't
known deep within herself that Maurice had disappeared three
years ago and hadn't received a letter from a seaman that had
told her about the death by drowning of her husband, she
would have thought that he had finally returned. But there
were small differences, very subtle, but she'd known Maurice
so well that she'd have discovered any doppelgänger of him.
And this Captain Miller was one, she knew that.
Jean handed her a glass of cognac, which she gladly
accepted. "Well, that certainly is a surprise. I am sorry,
Captain," she apologized. The resemblance was really
amazing. "Please take a seat. And you two had better explain
me what this is all about. How dare you!?"
"Catherine, last week I had the chance to travel west
to gather some information. I happened to meet the Captain
and I found out that he wanted to reconnoiter. His
resemblance to Maurice caught me as off guard as it did you,
Catherine ma chère, and so I thought that maybe we could
work together. I told Séverine and Paul about it and they
thought it was a good idea. However, we couldn't tell you
beforehand because we needed to see your reaction to the
Captain. I'm so sorry for that, but it has proved that anybody
would think Maurice is back after all," Jean explained. He'd
taken one of Catherine's hands into his right one and padded
it. He hated it to hurt her, but it was to her own and the
town's good. This made him sure she would approve of this.
"Oui," Catherine nodded, still amazed by the
resemblance. She got up and went to Miller, who had taken a
seat across the table. She took his face in both her hands and
looked him deeply in the eyes. They were the mirrors of his
very soul, and she was sure that the woman he loved could be
sure about what she saw when falling into them. Right now
there was something in his eyes she wasn't quite sure of.
There was so much love in his eyes ... He looked very much
like Maurice, despite for the foreign looking tattoo he wore
on his left temple. The blue lines on his tanned skin were
mysterious, very attractive. She wondered what they meant.
"You look like my late husband, Monsieur. I'm sorry, but ..."
her voice broke and she turned away from him.
Miller looked rather embarrassed and shot Jean a
glance that sought his help. He hadn't anticipated such a
strong reaction, and, frankly, he'd thought that his French
friends had informed her about this entire business.
"Alors, I think it'd be best if we called it a night. It's
been a long day, n'est-ce pas?" Even Jean was getting
somewhat uneasy now. He hadn't expected a reaction that
strong by Catherine either. Frank Miller was the spitting
image of Maurice, if it hadn't been for that he'd never ever
talked to him in the first place. Frankly, it had taken him aback
no less than it had Catherine.
Frank Miller hadn't spoken a single word until then.
He'd greeted the party in the nightclub with a curt nod, as was
his habit with civilians. When he'd first met Jean le Chef he
hadn't taken the small man seriously. His hairstyle was the
most unusual one he'd ever seen. Of course had he seen this
hairstyle before, but that had been with some Indians back in
the US. Frank knew that some of the French were rather
eccentric, but he hadn't thought it was that extreme. To top
everything about his appearance, Jean's skin was freckled with
huge marks.
At first Frank had thought that Jean had come to him
to rebuke him for his staring at him, but soon had found out
the truth about it. As it were, Frank happened to be the
lookalike of a deceased Frenchman. His widow was the owner
of the nightclub Jean worked at and the head of the local
resistance.
"What makes you so sure I wouldn't shop you?" Frank
asked the small man then.
"It's your eyes, mon capitan, and you're American. The
Nazis' enemies are our friends," Jean simply replied. Frank
smiled then. This Frenchman surely was a clever guy and the
chance he was offering him to reconnoiter the local German
headquarters was enticing.
"Okay, buddy. I'll think this over and talk to my
superiors, okay?" Frank slapped the startled man on the
shoulder.
The fact that he was the doppelganger of a deceased
man had only mattered to him because of the opportunities
coming along with it. Of course had he thought about the
widow, but he hadn't wasted any thought on her that wasn't
necessary. But this had changed as soon as he'd gotten to see
her. Instead of the old fat woman he'd expected to be the
dragon of the Cœur de Lion, he'd found a startling beauty of a
woman. She was about his age, in fact, and he'd never seen
that auburn hair nor that blue eyes. He didn't like her white
tuxedo that gave a comic touch to her otherwise very
attracting appearance. Madame Catherine was a very strong
lady, and wise for she knew very well how to hide her own
emotions for the good of her people. Having realized that,
Frank suddenly had no more prejudices against a woman
being the head of the resistance. In fact, who would suspect a
woman to be in this role, let alone if she fed the enemy in her
nightclub?
Frank was not quite sure whether he was glad that he
was going to share the apartment with Catherine or not. The
situation wasn't only awkward to her. She had to share her
privacy with a man whom she knew and yet didn't know. The
American officer in turn didn't know her at all, but instead he
could be sure that his presence was hurting her. Of course was
it not his fault, but he felt awkward and guilty nevertheless.
Now there were standing in her tiny living-room, not
quite knowing what to do.
"Madam, I don't know how to say this," Frank began.
"Then don't say anything," Catherine snapped. A
reaction for which she was almost immediately sorry. She
added more kindly: "Alors, it would be best if I showed you
around. Then you can refresh yourself while I'm preparing the
sofa for you to sleep on."
"D'accord," he smiled. *Mon dieu, those dimples are
going to ...* Catherine didn't dare go on thinking. Miller was
so very different from Maurice. His voice, which was gentle
and soft, not as hoarse from smoking too much as Maurice's
had been; his very behavior towards her. Not that he'd done
so much up to now. Although he was the spitting image of
Maurice in appearance, he was an entire different character.
Catherine caught herself thinking God for his appearance.
Half an hour later, when everything was settled, they
exchanged their good-nights. "Bonne nuit, good night and
sleep well," Catherine said before she turned into her
bedroom.
"Bonne nuit," Frank attempted to say, but actually his
French *night* sounded more like *suit*. "And thanks, for
everything. I know what this is meaning to you, Catherine,
and I appreciate it more than you may think."
Her eyes seemed full for a second or so, but the
French woman managed to hide it by setting her jaw and
raising it for a centimeter or two. "Yes, thank you." Then she
turned and closed the dark door behind her.
Frank kept staring at the door for a while after she'd
closed it. Somehow it seemed as if she'd erected a symbolic
wall of protection between them. But after all it was just a
door, and doors could be opened, especially in case they
weren't locked. Catherine hadn't turned the key in its lock.
This business was hurting her more than he'd thought
and he was sure that it hurt her more than she was ready to
admit. The loss of a beloved was terrible and he was very well
aware of the fact that he'd ripped open old wounds by his
appearance. He wished he'd never agreed to this plan. Just like
Catherine, however, he was doing this for the good of the
community. He had had no choice.
Catherine leaned against the door after having closed it
behind her. She bent her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
*How dare they?* she screamed silently. She pressed her hand
on her mouth to suppress the sobs welling up in her chest. She
held her breath and gritted her teeth until the pain got the
better of her. The sobs escaped from between her lips, softly
at first, but with the growing pain in both her chest and soul
they grew louder. She let herself slide slowly down to the
ground until she was able to curl up in a tight ball and let
herself go.
How dared they do this to her? They knew very well
that she was still suffering from Maurice's death. Even more
so that she wasn't sure whether he'd had to die alone. Her
greatest fear was not that she was going to die under great
physical pain rather than she was going to die alone. She
simply couldn't bear this thought. Besides, she'd never seen
Maurice's corpse, she had no proof for his death other than his
golden necklace. Why on Earth did Jean have to come across
that American? Why? Hadn't he thought about the effects this
was going to have on her for a single second? Just for once
she wanted to be just like herself. Just for once she wanted the
one to receive, not the one to give. And what were they
doing? Taking from her despite their better knowledge even
when they knew that she was down.
She clenched her hands into tight fists to suppress the
cry of frustration that was about to break away from her.
However, she remained lying curled up where she was until
she was sure that the tears had finally ceased to flow.
The bed remained unused that night for Catherine was
too exhausted from the flood of emotions that had
overwhelmed her. She fell asleep on the cold floor, sleeping a
deep but dreamless sleep.
Frank, who'd eventually laid down in his makeshift
bed, that was more comfortable than it had seemed at first
glance, opened his eyes with a start when he heard the strange
sounds coming from behind the door. He sat up in bed with a
start and after having listened to the sounds for a while, he
knew that Catherine was crying. The urge to go and look after
her almost got the better of him, but he decided to stay in bed.
Although listening to her crying gut-wrenchingly, he knew
that the only reaction of hers would have been a rebuke. A
woman like her wouldn't accept help easily. She needed to be
certain that she could trust others absolutely before she was
ready to open herself to them. It was strange, but it occurred
to him that he'd been knowing her much longer than merely
one short hour. So he tried to shut out her sobs from his mind
and turned his back on the door to go to sleep.
rules in a game? Has it done any harm? But it certainly was fun, wasn't
it? So I have a little fun breaking the rules of Paramount who invented
the Killing Game and everything Trek. However, I do not intend any
copyright infringement. I just do this to have fun and to share this with
others (who in turn nurture my ego ... at least I hope so).
I'm hoping you enjoy this.
This part is rated PG (for smoking and drinking alcohol and gaping)
Coeur de Lion
By Katie
Chapter 1
Her Late Husband
The only light in the *Coeur de Lion* was coming
from the bar, where Mademoiselle deNeuf and Catherine were
busy counting the taking of this evening. Some of their guests
had spent a lot of money on beverages and had given Séverine
a special tip, others had spent less money. But this wasn't of
interest to Catherine as long as everybody enjoyed themselves
and forgot about the war for a few hours. As long as there
was enough money left over for the resistance, she didn't
really care whether people were generous or tight-fisted. At
first, she'd thought she'd never be able to let Germans into her
night-club, let alone take their money. But Paul, her African
bartender, had convinced her otherwise. He knew that the
Germans paid well, even if they seemed not to cherish the
wines and eau de vies. It was important that they brought
them their money, and after a short while Catherine even
enjoyed taking their money. If only they knew what she was
taking their money for ... but this didn't mean she liked them
having in her night-club. Most of those Nazis didn't have any
behavior and manners and most of them didn't hesitate to
show their contempt for the French ostentatiously. It didn't
comfort her in any way that these were times of war. She had
to act against her principles, but she was glad she had Paul's
logic to rely on. His point of view was very objective, which
was in fact sometimes as annoying as it was useful.
"How much is it?" she asked and puffed on her
cigarette.
"Too little," Séverine answered. She looked in
annoyance at the woman standing across the counter.
"Catherine, I take it you wanted to stop smoking? Isn't there
enough smoke in here, six evenings a week?"
Catherine smiled wryly and put out the cigarette in the
chrome ashtray next to her. "I know, I know," she sighed,
releasing the smoke between her pursed lips. As usual the
dark red lipstick looked as though she'd just put it on.
Séverine, though familiar with this business, couldn't help
wondering how Catherine managed to look fresh even after a
long night. "This is my last one, I promise."
"Same thing as yesterday and the day before," the
blonde woman groaned. It was hopeless. Catherine was the
most stubborn woman she'd ever known, but if it hadn't been
for her stubbornness she'd never have managed to become the
owner of a renowned night-club.
Just then, somebody knocked vehemently at the door.
Séverine turned and looked in the direction of the door. Who
could that be at this time of night? Everybody knew that they
were closed. Thanks to their relations to the Germans
stationed in their town they were allowed to be opened longer
than the closing time. Thanks to their relations to the Germans
they also were pretty sure that none of them would ever
suspect them of working actively against them in the
underground, using their money to buy weapons and other
strategic devices.
Catherine opened a drawer and took out a small gun
which she hid behind her back. Just then, the person outside
knocked even harder against the windowpane in the door.
"Oui, oui! J'arrive tout de suite! I'm coming!" Catherine
shouted with her powerful voice at the impatient pain in the
neck. Nevertheless did she go to the door at a normal pace.
She disappeared behind the porch that was secluded from the
lounge by a milky windowpane. Séverine took a step or two
in the same direction, ready to help her friend.
"Who's there?" she heard Catherine ask briskly.
"It's me, Jean. Catherine, please open, I have a guest
for you," Jean, their all-around-handy-man and chef explained.
It had been his night off. Just like Catherine and Séverine, he
lived in one of the small apartments upstairs the *Coeur de
Lion*. Catherine turned the keys and let Jean and their guest
enter. She eyed the stranger suspiciously when he entered her
night-club behind Jean. He was tall, had a strong frame and
his pitch-black hair was combed back and covered with glossy
hair-cream. He wore fashionable civilian's clothes whose style
she couldn't tell. It wasn't quite French. Who was this guy?
Anyway, he looked good. His skin was tanned, she could see
this when they approached the counter. His eyes were dark
and sparkling and she could quite well imagine the dimples his
delicately curved lips would elicit when he would smile.
Catherine realized in shock that he was the spitting
image of her late husband.
"So," Séverine said, with one of her eyebrows raised.
She crossed her arms in front of her breasts and eyed the
stranger no less suspiciously than the other woman had done
earlier. Catherine's reaction to the doppelgänger of Maurice
was subtle, but obvious enough that Séverine had no doubt
that their plan was going to work. Jean hadn't promised them
too much for once.
"This is Captain Frank Miller of the US Army," Jean
introduced the stranger to the women.
Catherine hid her surprise better than she'd thought
herself being capable of. Nevertheless was she glad that Jean
pushed a chair behind her so she could sit down. If she hadn't
known deep within herself that Maurice had disappeared three
years ago and hadn't received a letter from a seaman that had
told her about the death by drowning of her husband, she
would have thought that he had finally returned. But there
were small differences, very subtle, but she'd known Maurice
so well that she'd have discovered any doppelgänger of him.
And this Captain Miller was one, she knew that.
Jean handed her a glass of cognac, which she gladly
accepted. "Well, that certainly is a surprise. I am sorry,
Captain," she apologized. The resemblance was really
amazing. "Please take a seat. And you two had better explain
me what this is all about. How dare you!?"
"Catherine, last week I had the chance to travel west
to gather some information. I happened to meet the Captain
and I found out that he wanted to reconnoiter. His
resemblance to Maurice caught me as off guard as it did you,
Catherine ma chère, and so I thought that maybe we could
work together. I told Séverine and Paul about it and they
thought it was a good idea. However, we couldn't tell you
beforehand because we needed to see your reaction to the
Captain. I'm so sorry for that, but it has proved that anybody
would think Maurice is back after all," Jean explained. He'd
taken one of Catherine's hands into his right one and padded
it. He hated it to hurt her, but it was to her own and the
town's good. This made him sure she would approve of this.
"Oui," Catherine nodded, still amazed by the
resemblance. She got up and went to Miller, who had taken a
seat across the table. She took his face in both her hands and
looked him deeply in the eyes. They were the mirrors of his
very soul, and she was sure that the woman he loved could be
sure about what she saw when falling into them. Right now
there was something in his eyes she wasn't quite sure of.
There was so much love in his eyes ... He looked very much
like Maurice, despite for the foreign looking tattoo he wore
on his left temple. The blue lines on his tanned skin were
mysterious, very attractive. She wondered what they meant.
"You look like my late husband, Monsieur. I'm sorry, but ..."
her voice broke and she turned away from him.
Miller looked rather embarrassed and shot Jean a
glance that sought his help. He hadn't anticipated such a
strong reaction, and, frankly, he'd thought that his French
friends had informed her about this entire business.
"Alors, I think it'd be best if we called it a night. It's
been a long day, n'est-ce pas?" Even Jean was getting
somewhat uneasy now. He hadn't expected a reaction that
strong by Catherine either. Frank Miller was the spitting
image of Maurice, if it hadn't been for that he'd never ever
talked to him in the first place. Frankly, it had taken him aback
no less than it had Catherine.
Frank Miller hadn't spoken a single word until then.
He'd greeted the party in the nightclub with a curt nod, as was
his habit with civilians. When he'd first met Jean le Chef he
hadn't taken the small man seriously. His hairstyle was the
most unusual one he'd ever seen. Of course had he seen this
hairstyle before, but that had been with some Indians back in
the US. Frank knew that some of the French were rather
eccentric, but he hadn't thought it was that extreme. To top
everything about his appearance, Jean's skin was freckled with
huge marks.
At first Frank had thought that Jean had come to him
to rebuke him for his staring at him, but soon had found out
the truth about it. As it were, Frank happened to be the
lookalike of a deceased Frenchman. His widow was the owner
of the nightclub Jean worked at and the head of the local
resistance.
"What makes you so sure I wouldn't shop you?" Frank
asked the small man then.
"It's your eyes, mon capitan, and you're American. The
Nazis' enemies are our friends," Jean simply replied. Frank
smiled then. This Frenchman surely was a clever guy and the
chance he was offering him to reconnoiter the local German
headquarters was enticing.
"Okay, buddy. I'll think this over and talk to my
superiors, okay?" Frank slapped the startled man on the
shoulder.
The fact that he was the doppelganger of a deceased
man had only mattered to him because of the opportunities
coming along with it. Of course had he thought about the
widow, but he hadn't wasted any thought on her that wasn't
necessary. But this had changed as soon as he'd gotten to see
her. Instead of the old fat woman he'd expected to be the
dragon of the Cœur de Lion, he'd found a startling beauty of a
woman. She was about his age, in fact, and he'd never seen
that auburn hair nor that blue eyes. He didn't like her white
tuxedo that gave a comic touch to her otherwise very
attracting appearance. Madame Catherine was a very strong
lady, and wise for she knew very well how to hide her own
emotions for the good of her people. Having realized that,
Frank suddenly had no more prejudices against a woman
being the head of the resistance. In fact, who would suspect a
woman to be in this role, let alone if she fed the enemy in her
nightclub?
Frank was not quite sure whether he was glad that he
was going to share the apartment with Catherine or not. The
situation wasn't only awkward to her. She had to share her
privacy with a man whom she knew and yet didn't know. The
American officer in turn didn't know her at all, but instead he
could be sure that his presence was hurting her. Of course was
it not his fault, but he felt awkward and guilty nevertheless.
Now there were standing in her tiny living-room, not
quite knowing what to do.
"Madam, I don't know how to say this," Frank began.
"Then don't say anything," Catherine snapped. A
reaction for which she was almost immediately sorry. She
added more kindly: "Alors, it would be best if I showed you
around. Then you can refresh yourself while I'm preparing the
sofa for you to sleep on."
"D'accord," he smiled. *Mon dieu, those dimples are
going to ...* Catherine didn't dare go on thinking. Miller was
so very different from Maurice. His voice, which was gentle
and soft, not as hoarse from smoking too much as Maurice's
had been; his very behavior towards her. Not that he'd done
so much up to now. Although he was the spitting image of
Maurice in appearance, he was an entire different character.
Catherine caught herself thinking God for his appearance.
Half an hour later, when everything was settled, they
exchanged their good-nights. "Bonne nuit, good night and
sleep well," Catherine said before she turned into her
bedroom.
"Bonne nuit," Frank attempted to say, but actually his
French *night* sounded more like *suit*. "And thanks, for
everything. I know what this is meaning to you, Catherine,
and I appreciate it more than you may think."
Her eyes seemed full for a second or so, but the
French woman managed to hide it by setting her jaw and
raising it for a centimeter or two. "Yes, thank you." Then she
turned and closed the dark door behind her.
Frank kept staring at the door for a while after she'd
closed it. Somehow it seemed as if she'd erected a symbolic
wall of protection between them. But after all it was just a
door, and doors could be opened, especially in case they
weren't locked. Catherine hadn't turned the key in its lock.
This business was hurting her more than he'd thought
and he was sure that it hurt her more than she was ready to
admit. The loss of a beloved was terrible and he was very well
aware of the fact that he'd ripped open old wounds by his
appearance. He wished he'd never agreed to this plan. Just like
Catherine, however, he was doing this for the good of the
community. He had had no choice.
Catherine leaned against the door after having closed it
behind her. She bent her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
*How dare they?* she screamed silently. She pressed her hand
on her mouth to suppress the sobs welling up in her chest. She
held her breath and gritted her teeth until the pain got the
better of her. The sobs escaped from between her lips, softly
at first, but with the growing pain in both her chest and soul
they grew louder. She let herself slide slowly down to the
ground until she was able to curl up in a tight ball and let
herself go.
How dared they do this to her? They knew very well
that she was still suffering from Maurice's death. Even more
so that she wasn't sure whether he'd had to die alone. Her
greatest fear was not that she was going to die under great
physical pain rather than she was going to die alone. She
simply couldn't bear this thought. Besides, she'd never seen
Maurice's corpse, she had no proof for his death other than his
golden necklace. Why on Earth did Jean have to come across
that American? Why? Hadn't he thought about the effects this
was going to have on her for a single second? Just for once
she wanted to be just like herself. Just for once she wanted the
one to receive, not the one to give. And what were they
doing? Taking from her despite their better knowledge even
when they knew that she was down.
She clenched her hands into tight fists to suppress the
cry of frustration that was about to break away from her.
However, she remained lying curled up where she was until
she was sure that the tears had finally ceased to flow.
The bed remained unused that night for Catherine was
too exhausted from the flood of emotions that had
overwhelmed her. She fell asleep on the cold floor, sleeping a
deep but dreamless sleep.
Frank, who'd eventually laid down in his makeshift
bed, that was more comfortable than it had seemed at first
glance, opened his eyes with a start when he heard the strange
sounds coming from behind the door. He sat up in bed with a
start and after having listened to the sounds for a while, he
knew that Catherine was crying. The urge to go and look after
her almost got the better of him, but he decided to stay in bed.
Although listening to her crying gut-wrenchingly, he knew
that the only reaction of hers would have been a rebuke. A
woman like her wouldn't accept help easily. She needed to be
certain that she could trust others absolutely before she was
ready to open herself to them. It was strange, but it occurred
to him that he'd been knowing her much longer than merely
one short hour. So he tried to shut out her sobs from his mind
and turned his back on the door to go to sleep.