(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.)

Here is a recent illustration by the author on deviantArt, showing Pierre Bertrand with Othello and the dog Charybdis: h+t+t+p+:+/+/+erik1881+.+deviantart+.+c+o+m+/+art+/+gutter-curs-590470492

Christmas as it should not be

Christine was absolutely set on arranging a wonderful Christmas for Marie. Unfortunately, she was the only one. Raoul was tensed up over the recent events, and his tension communicated itself to the others who were spending Christmas in the chateau.

Babette and Pierre fell out and made up with each other so often and in such quick succession that they themselves lost track of whether their engagement was currently on or off or on again. And since there was a great deal of preparation to be done for the two Christmas celebrations — above and below stairs — Babette had no patience to spare with Pierre's cynical remarks, and turned both him and his dogs out of the kitchen.

Pierre had been thoroughly irritable since receiving a parcel for Christmas that was once again addressed to P.F.E. Bertrand. His first reaction had been one of fury, after which he had accepted the parcel and hidden it somewhere in his room. Dr Martin and his wife were at loggerheads, because Madame Martin would have liked nothing better than a fairytale Christmas and the doctor preferred to devote his time to bringing his practice up to date.

The festivities were arranged such that Raoul, Christine and Marie were to celebrate theirs with Dr Martin, his wife and daughters, and Pierre Bertrand. The nursemaid, Yvonne, would also be present. Everyone else would join in the servants' celebration.

The first thing to happen was a row between Pierre and Babette outside the door. "Go off and party with the aristocracy, then, why don't you — I'm only the cook here and I suppose you're something better!" accused Babette.

"What rubbish, I'm just following orders. What sort of gossip do you think we're going to get lumbered with if we spend the party together?"

"That's right, hide behind your Vicomte's orders. Enjoy yourself among all the fine company!" She swept off in a huff, and Pierre came into the room, clearly embarrassed that everyone had overheard.

To start off with, presents were exchanged. Dr Martin's two daughters got dolls with pretty clothes to dress them in and began at once to quarrel over a particular doll-bonnet, and Madame Martin had her hands full trying to calm them down. Christine was looking after Marie, who got far more presents than anybody else, even though at her age she couldn't grasp the meaning of them. Even Pierre had a present for Marie: a mobile with little bells on it, with which she was enchanted because it made noises. The nursemaid steeled herself for a broken night if the baby were to be allowed to keep the bells.

Raoul had a new doctor's bag for Dr Martin along with its contents, with which the doctor was so delighted that he failed to notice anything else — in particular his wife and her present, a scarf that she had knitted for him herself. Madame Martin sent a severe look backwards and forwards from her husband to her children; she would have words with them when they were alone.

Raoul and Christine had both sought out presents for each other with great care. Christine got a silk scarf that was an exact replica of the one that Raoul had fished out of the water at their first meeting, and for Raoul she had commissioned a watch with a miniature of Marie painted inside the case.

For Pierre they had jointly found a little pocket-watch which showed the date as well as the time. This year Pierre had clearly prepared better for a present in return, for he gave the Vicomtesse a golden chain on which hung a simple gold cross.

"It belonged to my mother," he explained. "I have no daughter to whom I could pass it on — but you have one, and therefore it's yours."

Christine protested that she could not accept it, but since Pierre insisted she took it all the same.

When it was tea-time Madame Martin had the greatest of trouble to get her children and husband to stay at the table and not to disappear off immediately with their presents. Marie did not want to eat her pap, and spat it straight out again until she, the nursemaid, and her high-chair were covered with it.

Halfway through the main course Christine sprang suddenly to her feet, tried to make it out of the room, failed, and had to throw up in the middle of the floor. Dr Martin and Raoul rushed to her assistance and got her to her bedroom, where the doctor examined her carefully while Raoul went back to the others. In the corridor he saw Pierre presenting Babette with her gift: a sturdy cast-iron frying-pan. Babette cast herself upon Pierre's neck — or, rather, upon his chest, since the height difference between them meant that she didn't even reach to his shoulder.

Raoul took his daughter in his lap and attempted with moderate success to feed her. Finally he managed to induce her to eat peas from his plate, to which she helped herself with small but dextrous fingers. At that moment she filled her nappy and, since she couldn't sit still, bestowed a certain amount upon Raoul's trousers. He gave her back to the nursemaid so that the latter could wash and change her. Then Yvonne took the baby off to bed and Raoul poured himself some wine.

Madame Martin made her excuses, and took the two little girls, still squabbling over the bonnet, with her. Raoul gazed at the wine and decided that after all the upset he deserved another glass.

When he was about halfway down the second bottle, Pierre came back. He no longer seemed sober either, and was about to apologise to Raoul for having made him wait so long when he noticed that the Vicomte was in a sad way.

~o~

Dr Martin had in the meantime found out the cause of Christine's sudden nausea, and delivered his diagnosis of heartiest congratulations. After a few hours the sickness had abated, and she went in search of her husband.

The servants' celebrations had by this time more or less broken up, save for the kitchen and scullery maids who were putting away the dishes. Babette was sitting on the stairs with a bottle of wine in one hand and her new frying pan in the other. When she caught sight of Christine, she called over to her joyfully: "He does love me! He's given me a frying pan to beat off bothersome men with, after I told him about how I knocked down the blacksmith with one when I was a girl."

She smiled happily and bestowed a loving kiss on the pan. Christine wondered whether Pierre might not yet find happiness after all. She hoped the old man could have some happy years ahead of him.

From Babette, who was still fondling the frying pan tenderly, she learned that Pierre had taken the Vicomte into the guest wing, which was unoccupied save for Pierre's room. She set off to find her husband.

The door of the first room was standing open, and she could hear noises from inside. An unpleasant aroma struck her as she entered, and she saw Raoul's jacket lying on the floor. The sounds were coming from the bathroom.

Opening the door carefully a crack, she saw Raoul sitting on the floor in front of the toilet bowl, leaning back against Pierre, who was standing behind him. "I can't take it any more," Raoul groaned, and Pierre soothed him: "It's almost over."

Raoul made a gurgling noise, and Pierre grabbed him by the collar and held his head over the bowl. When he had finished, Pierre drew him back again, leant him against his knees and caught up a towel and a flask of water. "Drink," he commanded.

"I feel sick," Raoul sobbed out, turning his head away, "and it just keeps coming back up, and I don't want to any more..."

"It's all right, never mind. Now be a good lad and take another sip... Babette! Curse you, Babette, where have you got to?" Pierre shouted furiously. "I'll murder that female. Babette!"

"I'm afraid you can't count on her coming," Christine said softly.

"Madame?" Pierre, astonished, stared at her.

"Christine... don't tell her... she musn't know," begged Raoul.

"It's all right, this will stay between the two of us," Pierre promised him as Raoul was overcome by a fresh fit of retching. "Please go, Madame."

He turned to Christine with a pleading look. "Please. I'll see to this. But, if you would, open the window."

Christine nodded and opened the window, then left. She wanted to respect Raoul's wish for her not to see him in this condition and was grateful to Pierre for taking care of her husband. All the same, when she lay in bed alone she did not feel at ease.

Raoul awoke the next morning in a room of which he had no recollection at all. Light fell through a small chink in the curtains, and the fire was lit.

"Feeling better?" enquired Pierre hoarsely. Raoul looked around in confusion and found him sitting in an armchair by the window.

Pierre stood up with an effort and stretched, then came to Raoul's bedside. He seemed suddenly very old and grey, but more than anything else worn out.

Raoul sat up, and struggled against abrupt giddiness and pain that shot through his head. His insides were burning as if he had been drinking fire and there was a foul sour taste in his mouth.

He blinked, then saw the cup in front of his nose. "Drink," ordered Pierre. It was an order that Raoul dimly remembered having heard again and again the previous night.

"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.

"Tea made from ginger, camomile, caraway, fennel and peppermint, with honey. It's good against sickness," explained Pierre. "Now get it down. And then have some soup."

"Soup for breakfast?"

Pierre sat down on the edge of Raoul's bed and surveyed him calmly. "Take it from me, I know what you need right now."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Raoul.

"I was young once too... and compared to my excesses, yesterday was nothing at all. In those days I had a friend who came to my aid, but I never had the chance to repay him. I think he would be glad to see me do the same for you. It's much better than waking up somewhere or other the next morning in a puddle of vomit and urine and having to crawl back home — that's a disgrace from which one doesn't soon recover."

Raoul felt suddenly hot and broke out in sweat. "Who knows about this?" he asked, horrified.

"I do," Pierre replied, "and Dr Martin, who is bound by his physician's oath of confidence. Otherwise, nobody. And incidentally — ginger tea is sovereign against morning sickness."

"What?" The Vicomte failed to follow.

"Congratulations are due," growled out Pierre. "Dr Martin told you last night, but I don't suppose you remember."

He stood up and stretched again, trying to loosen the painful muscles in his back. "I'm too old to spend the night in a chair," he said with a sigh. "Will you be all right on your own now? I'm going to get some sleep."

Raoul nodded, and Pierre left the room.

Looking about him, Raoul saw that someone had put out a fresh suit of clothes for him. After washing face and body with cold water, he dressed and went in search of Christine. She was sitting in the music room, singing to Marie, who watched with wide eyes. The little girl was chewing on the hand of her doll and dribbling on her dress.

When Christine caught sight of Raoul, she broke off at once — despite Marie's protest of "Mama lala, Mama lala!" — and beamed at him. "Good morning, darling. Just imagine, we have the most wonderful news: Marie is going to have a little brother or sister."

"Li-bro-sih, li-bro-sih," echoed Marie, and laughed. Then she demanded firmly: "Mama lala!"

~o~

Lunch was somewhat basic, since it had not been cooked by Babette but one of the kitchenmaids. Madame Martin apologised for the misbehaviour of her daughters, and Dr Martin presented Pierre's apologies: he had severe backache and could not sit down.

"I tried to help him," began Dr Martin. "It's the muscles. He's tenser than anyone I've ever seen. They're so taut that sometimes one can't tell what's bone and what's muscle."

Raoul stared shamefaced down at his plate. He had a shrewd idea where Pierre's back pains had come from. But he said nothing.

After Christmas Day, the sort of crazy normality to which they had all become accustomed returned.

Raoul sought out Pierre in order to thank him. Pierre had saved him from damaging his reputation, and a damaged reputation was not easy to mend. They sat together in Raoul's study, drank tea and chatted on inconsequential subjects until Raoul could finally get out his thanks.

"I swore to do everything I could to protect Marie," said Pierre. "That also includes looking after you and your wife — and, if you will permit it, the children we hope are yet to come."

"You're a strange man, Monsieur Bertrand. Whenever it's quiet, you stir up trouble; but when troubles come, then you're the first to help."

Pierre said nothing. He did not know what to say.

Finally he sighed. "I'm just a stray dog who's trying to turn himself into a family pet."