(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.)

Marie Claire Louise

It was a sunny day at the start of March, and Christine was sitting on the terrace enjoying the first warm sunshine of the year when she suddenly cried out. In an instant Raoul was at her side. "What is it?"

"It's started," Christine whispered between set teeth.

Raoul knew that he must do something, but at that moment he had simply no idea what. It was as if his wits had suddenly vanished, leaving only an appalling panic. All that occurred to him was to call loudly for help; Christine laughed. "That was only the first pain, and it's over."

The parlour-maids, the cook, and various male servants came running immediately. "Call the midwife and the doctor and take my wife to her room!" commanded Raoul in a trembling voice, and the servants hastened to carry out his orders. Raoul paced around anxiously, not knowing what to do.

"Darling, you're making me nervous," said Christine, who, supported by two of the parlour-maids, was entirely capable of making her own way to her room.

"Are you all right? Are you in pain? How is the baby? Does it hurt terribly? What's happening now?" asked Raoul.

At that point the midwife appeared, and the doctor together with his wife, who could assist him in case of need. Christine lay down on the bed.

"We must get you into a nightgown, Madame," said the midwife, and she and the parlour-maids helped Christine to change while the doctor waited discreetly outside the door. He was wondering whether it was not rather the father-to-be whom he should be treating; at any rate the young mother currently appeared to be in the pink of health while the father looked as if he would pass out at any moment.

"There's nothing to worry about: normally the labour pains are several hours apart at the beginning, then intervals will become shorter and shorter until the birth really gets under way," he reassured Raoul, who was fidgeting around nervously. "So there's still a long time to go."

At that moment Christine cried out again, and Raoul slid to the ground. The doctor rolled his eyes: yet another father who couldn't handle childbirth, despite not even being in the same room but only outside the door. Unless the midwife called on him for help the doctor would not so much as enter the room, and if the birth took place without complications he would be entirely superflous. However, he was ready to intervene if anything were to go wrong.

Just then Pierre entered the passage. He looked from the unconscious Vicomte to the doctor. "Get the father out of my hair before he does himself an injury!" commanded Dr Martin, and Pierre took hold of the Vicomte and carried him to his study, where he laid him on the sofa. Sure enough, Raoul came to his senses.

"Where am I and how is Christine?"

Pierre, who himself seemed tense, shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? The doctor told me to remove you before you hurt yourself."

Raoul jumped to his feet and ran back to Christine's bedroom, closely followed by Pierre. "How is she? What's the matter? Is she in pain? How is the baby?" Raoul cried, completely out of breath.

"Ah, the second stage of labour has just started — it'll be another couple of hours," explained the doctor, who was sitting on a chair leafing through a book. His black bag was standing on the floor next to him.

"Hours? Oh God..." Raoul would have been on the verge of collapsing again if Pierre had not caught hold of him from behind and held on.

"Come on, we'll get some fresh air," suggested Pierre, and Raoul allowed himself to be led away.

In the garden Raoul sat down on the grass to avoid falling over. One of Pierre's dogs ran up to him and sat down beside him, and Raoul put an arm round the animal. He needed something to hang onto — even if it was only a dog.

Just then they heard a cry from Christine. "Don't pass out!" warned Pierre, who had himself gone very pale.

Raoul shook his head and held more tightly onto the hound. "And kindly don't throttle my Charybdis," Pierre growled, and sat down next to Raoul.

"How is she?" Raoul begged. "What's going on? Is there anything I can do?"

"Excuse me a moment..." Pierre said, and disappeared.

After what felt like an eternity he returned and reported: "The midwife has given out 'no men allowed on this floor' as the watchword and the cook is sitting on the stairs armed with a frying-pan. She said the Vicomtesse had given her explicit instructions to crack the skull of any man she could get hold of."

"And what took you so long?" Raoul enquired anxiously.

Pierre gave a sigh and admitted with embarrassment that he hadn't felt any too good himself.

"You... felt ill?" Raoul was taken aback; then he had to laugh. "You, an old campaigner with nerves of steel, afraid of no-one and nothing — you felt ill because MY wife was having a baby?"

Pierre permitted himself an awkward grin. "I just can't bear it for a woman to be in pain."

The next few hours were atrocious, for Christine at least, for all that it was an amazingly easy and rapid birth. But then came the moment when the midwife showed her child to her for the first time.

"Congratulations, you have a healthy girl," the woman said, beaming. Christine took the tiny creature, which seemed to her to be the most beautiful baby in the whole world, in her arms and at a stroke all the suffering of the previous hours flew out of her mind.

"Please call my husband," she said.

Raoul came in trembling, with grass and mud on his trousers. "Are you all right?" he asked, in a voice that sounded more like a six-year-old than a grown man.

"Look — our daughter," said Christine, and showed him the baby.

"Oh, my God!" It was all Raoul could manage. He wept with joy when he learnt that it was a completely healthy little girl. "I'm so happy!"

The days that followed plunged the young parents into a whirl of alternating emotions. On the one hand they were delighted about the baby, who was to carry the names Marie Claire Louise. On the other they were highly offended when people commiserated with the Vicomte for having only got a daughter. They couldn't stand all this stupid business about how awful it was that she was only a girl: Raoul told everybody, whether they wanted to hear it or not, how incredibly pleased he was to have a healthy daughter and how in any case a daughter was what he had wanted. The more he heard how unfortunate he was to have a girl, the more he was insistent that he wanted more girls and what a wonderful thing daughters were.

Three days after the birth, the Vicomte and Vicomtesse called Pierre into the salon.

"May I present Marie Claire Louise de Chagny," Christine said, beaming. Pierre approached cautiously to take a glance at the baby, who looked at him with wide blue eyes.

"My heartiest congratulations," he said, and Christine noticed that his voice sounded clearer and less gruff than usual.

"We have something to ask of you," began Raoul, and Pierre paid attention. "We'd like you to be Marie's godfather."

Pierre's reaction made both Raoul and Christine laugh. At first he stood there as if he had been struck in the face, then he opened his mouth, couldn't get out a word, shut it again and tried once more, but without success. Finally he sat down in an armchair without being asked and stared at them both as if they had just dropped out of the sky in front of him. This lasted for a while, and then he burst out: "Why me?"

"If you hadn't saved my life, then Marie would never have been born. In the coach — don't you remember?" said Christine, and held out Marie for Pierre to take her in his arms.

Pierre made no move to touch the baby, but stared at Marie as if afraid of her. Then suddenly his expression softened and grew more gentle, and tears came into his eyes as he cautiously reached out a hand to touch Marie's tiny little hand with one finger. "She is so very beautiful," he whispered.

Marie gripped his finger and held onto it tightly. Pierre trembled so much that if he had not already been sitting down he would have fallen over. "And... you really want ME of all people to be her godfather?" he asked in disbelief.

Christine and Raoul both nodded. Pierre drew his hand back and shook his head. "I... I can't do it... I mean... surely you don't want..."

"Of course we do," Christine insisted. "Why, we just said so."

"No, you don't!" The violence of Pierre's reply made Christine flinch back in shock. He shook his head again, saying sadly, "You know absolutely nothing about me... I'm nothing more than a gutter cur, wholly unpredictable. If you don't watch out, I'll go for the throat of my master. I'm the sort of mongrel dog who steals the roast, piddles on the legs of important guests, and messes on the carpet... believe me, you certainly don't want it to be me!"

He added quietly: "Although I wish..."

"Then say yes," Christine pressed him.

Pierre sighed. "If you're asking me again, then I have no more strength to refuse. Marie... little Marie... oh, God... how could I..."

Raoul took Christine to one side to ask her again if she was certain Pierre was the right godfather for Marie, when Pierre himself believed that he was unsuitable. Christine looked down at Marie in her arms. "Let Marie decide. If she starts to cry when I put her into his arms, that means no; if she doesn't cry, that means yes."

She went up to Pierre with determination and thrust Marie into his clasp, and Pierre sat there, scarcely daring to move for fear of dropping this tiny creature. Marie yawned and went to sleep. "That would be a yes, then," Raoul judged.

Pierre smiled as he answered: "In that case — it would be an honour. Hallo, little Marie, I'm your godfather, I'm supposed to protect you and so I shall. I swear to you that I'll do everything I can."

A few days before the christening, Pierre approached the Vicomte and begged him to think again and choose another godfather.

"Why?" asked the Vicomte. Pierre made a helpless gesture with his hands and brought out nothing but an incomprehensible stammer. "I don't understand..."

"I... I'm not fit to be a godfather," said Pierre in the depths of despair. "I'm not at all a good man."

"But why?" Raoul pressed him for details. "Tell me why exactly."

"I've... I've spilt far too much blood..."

Raoul was unperturbed. "You were a soldier, Monsieur Bertrand, and as a soldier have surely done terrible things, but I've always taken that into account. Or did you think I was so naive as to suppose that one could be a soldier without killing and injuring people?"

Pierre rubbed his temples as if his head ached, and sighed. "I give up... I still think that I'm by far the worst choice you could have found, but if you wish it then I'll take on this task. But don't tell me later on that I didn't warn you."

Now Raoul did find himself somewhat perturbed. Why did Pierre resist so much? It must be a dark secret that weighed so heavily on a man that he was not prepared to become a godfather even when he would clearly love to do it."Monsieur Bertrand — if you are not in a position to undertake the duties of a godfather, then say so!"

His words acted upon Pierre like the crack of a whip on a circus horse. "No, no, that's not it at all. If I become Marie's godfather, then I swear by all that I hold holy that I shall do everything within my power to protect her from any harm. I'll do everything, absolutely everything. But... please don't misunderstand me... I simply don't believe that I'm worthy of that honour."

Raoul laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "In that case you have the opportunity from now on to prove yourself worthy."

He felt a jolt run through the gaunt man as if the other had taken an irrevocable decision. Pierre looked him straight in the eyes. "You can count on me."