Papa's arms are warm around her, and she presses herself into him. He does not speak, neither of them speak. Words have no place here. It is enough that he came to her, enough that he lay down on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms. She had not long composed herself when he appeared in the doorway, and he leaned heavily on his cane, his eyes heavy. She moved over, too tired to say anything, and he nodded, and came in, and joined her.
And neither of them have uttered a single thing but it does not matter. His arms are tight around her, and his breath is soft in her hair, and she can feel it in her bones, the fact that he understands. Maman must have told him, must have explained it all, and a wave of gratitude washes through Marguerite, for her mother and father both, for their gentleness, and tears well in her eyes, and Papa's lips are soft against her forehead, and he understands, he understands.
"I think," he whispers eventually, and his voice is soft, a little rough with disuse, "I think you should call on Raoul and Christine later. They will be happy to see you."
She swallows, fresh anxiety twisting in her stomach, and nuzzles into him, and nothing matters only this.
Konstin has dozed in the time that Antoine has been sitting here. It is a relief to see him so peaceful, at so much more ease than he was only an hour or two ago. There was tension in his eyes, a fumbling in his fingers, and Antoine felt a check at his heart, Delphine's words coming back to him. Perhaps you can talk some sense into the man.
(It surely cannot be much longer until Delphine comes back, to return him to his room.)
"I had a visit from Raoul today," and Konstin's voice was soft, and it was then that Antoine saw the golden case of a pocket watch peeping out from beneath Konstin's injured hand, and he recognized the case, recognized the way it is faintly worn, and he knew. He raised Konstin's good hand to his lips, and kissed him lightly on the knuckles. And there was a glimmer of a tear in Konstin's eyes, his lips twisting, and Antoine's heart ached for all he could not do.
"What's wrong, my love?" he whispered, his voice low so that nobody else could hear him, nobody who may happen to pass by the room. "I know there's something troubling you. Have you—have you been having nightmares again?"
And Konstin drew a shuddering breath, but didn't say anything.
"You know you can tell me about it, Konstin. You—I can't—I can't bear the thought of you suffering with these things alone. You'll feel better if you tell me."
It took so long, so very long, of Antoine murmuring, of rubbing circles into the back of Konstin's hand, of promising him that he will be all right, until Konstin whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks, "It's my fault they're dead, all my fault."
The whole story came spilling out, in halting words, and Antoine did not speak, simply listened, and held Konstin's hand to his lips, grateful that his back was to the door, that no one could come in and catch them unawares. The whole sorry, terrible story, about the order, and the colonel and the fog which was so much thicker when Konstin tried to cross with his men than when Antoine tried the next morning, and how he knew it was a suicide mission but he had to go ahead, and he saw a jet of blood before the world went dark.
"...and Marguerite told me—told me about Dupuis—about what happened to him. And he died, Antoine, he died horribly after lingering for so long, and she loved him. She loved him but he died and it's my fault that he's dead..." but Antoine had barely comprehended the words, barely comprehended that Marguerite had loved a man, when Konstin was already moving on, and he had to set aside the stab of pain for his sister to try to keep up with what was being said. "...and Lieutenant Henri left a wife and—and a little girl and they were going to have a baby, Antoine, they were going to have another baby but he died, and it's my fault that he died. I should have done something, should have pushed him out of the way or gotten in front of him or anything and all he wanted was his wife, just his wife..."
And on and on, about the other men, about how he should be punished, about how he has refused morphine (and the thought of him refusing morphine was an odd prickle of relief in Antoine's mind, even though he knows Konstin needs the morphine so badly just to try to keep the pain away), until his voice was hoarse, and Antoine brushed his hair away as he fell silent, trying to pull his thoughts together.
"It is not your fault, Konstin," he whispered, swallowing, and wishing that he could somehow make him believe, could somehow take his pain and guilt away. "The fault lies with the general who gave the order, and not with you or I. I swear it to you, Konstin. I swear it."
"I should have done something, should have tried to stop it." His voice was barely a breath.
"Should have mutinied?" Konstin nodded, a tiny, faint nod, and Antoine's stomach churned even as he fought to keep his own feelings under control. "If you'd mutinied you'd be dead, and the crossing still would have gone ahead, just with someone else leading, and all of those men would still be dead, and there would be no one to remember them. We can't dwell on how they died, or we will go mad. It will torment us and haunt us all of our lives, and they would not want that. But we can remember them, remember the men that they were, how brave, how kind, how wonderful. How they loved everyone that they left behind them. That's your duty, Konstin, to remember them as they were. It's better, a thousand times better, that you are alive. I promise." He kisses his knuckles. "I promise."
For a long time after that they sat in silence, simply holding hands, simply existing, Konstin's words turning over and over in Antoine's mind. ...should have pushed him out of the way or gotten in front of him...should have done something... But if he had done something then he would be dead, too, along with the rest. He would be lying buried in some grave so very far away from here, those awful words of killed in action or executed whispered about him, accompanied by meaningful glances. And he almost died as it was. If he had been later in finding him, or if his infection had gotten any worse, or if any of the possible complications, in surgery and after, had happened, then he would gone too. He nearly joined them, nearly was not here to remember those other men, would have been just one more name in a long list, and the bile burned Antoine's throat as it rose, and he swallowed it down, kissing Konstin's hand again. "I need you alive," he whispered. "Christine needs you alive, and Raoul. Marguerite needs you now more than ever, and if she did love Dupuis then you are the only one who can tell her about it. And Anja needs you, and Émile, and Guillaume. And Maman needs you, and Papa. We all need you so very much, and those men need you, the ones who died, the ones you could not save. They need you perhaps most of all. You are the only one who can tell their stories."
And fresh tears trickled from Konstin's eyes, but he did not speak, his lips twisted, only nodded again, another faint nod. Antoine leaned in, and brushed his lips gently against his forehead, and let his own tears drip into Konstin's hair.
It was a long time later, such a very long time later, when Konstin squeezed his fingers back and whispered, "Thank you." And that "Thank you" was the most precious thing that Antoine had ever heard in his life.
Konstin sighs now, his face slack, and Antoine smiles. "Sleep well, my love. Sleep well.
When Marguerite knocked on the door, and Raoul answered it, but she insisted on speaking privately with Christine, it was in that moment that Christine knew. Knew that Marguerite had loved a man, and knew how it ended, and the moment that Raoul settled Marguerite onto the divan and slipped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him, Christine settled on the divan beside her, and pulled her into her arms.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the poor girl's ear, stroking her long hair gently. "I'm sorry."
And Marguerite whispered against her, "How do you know?"
And Christine's breath caught in her throat, her arms wrapped around Marguerite remembering the heavy weight of Erik's body, and she breathed, "Because I was like you once." Marguerite knows about Erik, of course she does, but Christine knows the difference between knowing and having it said, and Marguerite simply nodded against her.
Christine pulled back, and stood up, smoothing the creases from her dress. "A very small sip of cognac, I think, to steady the nerves." And she tried not to think that she sounded like Nadir as she busied herself at the cabinet, withdrew the decanter and two glasses, and poured one finger into each glass.
"Sip it," she whispered, passing one glass to Marguerite, and the girl nodded, taking it with trembling hands as Christine sipped her own, and settled back down beside her. "Tell me about him."
And Marguerite told her.
And that is how they came to be like this, Marguerite cradled in Christine's arms, the brandy glasses set aside, and Christine whispering, "Perhaps it is better this way, better that he rest, and not need to suffer anymore. He went through so much, so terribly much." And she falls silent, thinking of this Edouard, thinking of Erik and all that he suffered, and knows that the words are true though they are surely not the ones that Marguerite wants to hear.
Marguerite whimpers, her hands balling in the material of Christine's dress, and Christine rocks her gently.
"You will always remember him," Christine goes on, whispering into her hair. "And part of you will always have those feelings over him, and there is nothing wrong with that, nothing. But it will get easier, I promise it will. And thirty years from now—thirty years from now, and in an awful lot less, you will look back, and it will feel as if he belongs to another world, as if you were someone else. And you will always care for him, and always remember him." Her words trail off, and she swallows, and hopes that what she says next can be of some comfort to her, some relief. "Just know that you brought him peace in his last days. And you being there meant he was not alone at the end. It would have been so much worse if he had been alone, so much worse."
Marguerite whimpers again, and Christine's heart clenches to hear her, and she rocks her, keeps rocking her, back and forth, and back, and forth, over and over and over again, and it is only when her breathing has evened, only when her grip on Christine's dress has loosened, that Christine realises that she is asleep.
Gently, infinitely gently so as not to wake her, Christine eases herself out from under Marguerite, and lowers her down to lie. She takes a blanket, the one she has wrapped around herself on her own late nights in this room and lays it gently over Marguerite, to keep her warm. She tidies away the cognac, the glasses, and smooths her hands over her dress, scrubs her face to remove any trace of her own tears, and then and only then, she goes to the door.
She finds Raoul in the dining room, sitting cross-legged in a chair at the head of the table, his newspaper spread out before him, and he looks up when he hears her enter.
"How is she?" he asks, his voice low, and Christine smiles as she crosses to his side, and kisses him gently on his forehead. And she slips onto his lap, and draws his arms around her.
"She will be all right," she murmurs back, and leans into him. "She will be all right."
And deep down, she knows that the words are true.
A/N: The last actual chapter! At last!
In a few hours time, when night has come here, I will post the Epilogue. In the meantime, please review!
Up next: Christmas Eve, 1917