A Soldier's Love

04. The Cat Might

Once the kitchen was tended to, she went to the bathroom and cleaned it well, humming to herself as she went. She wasn't so sure why she was so set on nursing the man on Rue Danton except that he badly needed to be nursed and didn't seem to have anyone else to do it. She was sure that the cats did their best, but cats did not make very good nurses. When all was said and done, Marguerite knew she was overstepping her bounds and she'd probably get in all sorts of trouble, but she didn't care. Whenever she thought about leaving, which she did several times, her whole body screamed at her to stay.

She got as far as the door, one time, but then she heard him coughing in his sleep and she started to cry, for she could not leave him, she would not, and she did not know how long she would stay. It wasn't fair of her to impose on him and she knew it. It wasn't fair to disobey his wishes, it wasn't right to stay here like this and watch him sleep. But he was so handsome, and so very...

What? What was it about him that made her stay? He had been very rude to her and she knew him not well, so it wasn't as if she were in love with him, for Margie knew better than that. No, it was because the thought of him had haunted her all month long. It was because of his disfigurement. And, Margie suspected, it was because he did not want to be cared for that she insisted upon caring for him. Everyone needed someone, and the man on Rue Danton had nobody, so Marguerite decided it would be her.

It would be her because she felt more complete than she had ever felt in her life when she tucked him into bed. It would be her because his gnarled face inspired in her not fear, nor even pity, but warmth, and admiration for his sacrifice. It would be her because he was ill, and his illness made her feel something, and she did not understand it, but she must obey it, for it was in the very marrow of her bones and it commanded her to stay and tend to him this night. It would be her because she wanted to caress the broken stump of his arm and kiss it in the moonlight. It would be her because she loved all the soldiers, and she was discovering that the more broken they were, the more fiercely she cared, and she was sure that the man on Rue Danton was the brokenest soldier of all the Allied armies put together, and so her breast surged with caring for him, whether he wanted it or not.

At midnight, there came a knock on the door. Marguerite had dozed off on the dingy little sofa and startled awake. There came another knock, this one more forceful and loud, and someone shouted, "Police! Open up!"

The man was still in bed, slumbering deep in sickness and in laudanum. Marguerite was inclined to let them knock until they went away, but they started to kick at the door, apparently intent on breaking it down, so Margie ran to the door and opened it a bit, peering out fearfully. In front of a group of uniformed policemen was none other than Pierre. Upon seeing her face he seized the door handle and yanked it, but the chain kept it closed.

"Marguerite! Get out here this instant!" Pierre bellowed. "He is keeping you in there, is he not? I'll kill him, I'll--"

"No!" Marguerite hissed. "Be quiet, all of you! He's asleep."

"Good, then you can escape  easily! Open the door!" Pierre cried.

"No." Marguerite bit her lip, gazing at the men with wide blue eyes. "I cannot leave."

"You must! He's dangerous! You said yourself he's asleep, now come, we'll protect you--"

"No," the girl said again. "No."

"What do you mean, No?" Pierre demanded. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I think I may have," the girl admitted. "But I'm not leaving him now. He's very, very ill, and no-one else will look after him unless I do."

"That's none of your concern. He's a dangerous man. A girl like you could get hurt!" one of the policemen said. "Come, now, little lady, we'll take you home. Your father's worried sick about you."

"Papa!" Marguerite whispered, flinching at the sound of his name. "Tell him I am all right, and I'll be home-- I-I-- I'll be home soon!"

"When is soon? Marguerite, I don't believe you. This isn't like you. You'll come with us now or we'll break down the door."

"No!" she said, stamping her foot. "I won't leave him to die here all by himself! Everybody needs somebody and you all think he's some kind of menace so you won't take care of him but I don't believe it! I don't believe any of it, he's just a man, Pierre, he's just like you, and he's been to war, and it's troubled him, as it's troubled you." She met the boy's eyes and held his gaze. "You said you have nightmares-- can you imagine what he must be living through!"

"I don't give a damn what he's living through, he's a monster, and a killer!" Pierre said. "Come out here this instant!"

"He's no monster-- you are the monster! You without a shred of compassion for a war hero even worse off than yourself! You have a family, Pierre, and what has he? Nothing! So go on home to your mother and sisters, to your warm house full of love and caring! I will stay here and pour so much love into this place that it will spill out the windows and out into the streets!"

"Love! So! You love the monster now!" Pierre scoffed.

"I love everyone who is in need of love, and I have never seen anyone who needs love as he does," Marguerite said, her voice so soft and serious. "You will leave now, and tell my parents that I am perfectly well and safe. Tell them that I found a wounded cat and am compelled to tend to it until I am certain it shall be all right without me."

"This is ridiculous," said Pierre, throwing up his hands. He turned to the policemen. "Can't you break down the door and make her come?"

"Surely not," said one of the officers, shaking his head. "If she is here of her own volition, there's not a thing we can do. And my men and I all saw it-- she wants to be here. God only knows why."

Without another word, Pierre stormed off down the hall, and after a moment, the policemen followed, muttering amongst themselves. Marguerite watched them go, fuming at Pierre, and feeling more than a little guilty for making everyone worry. When the last of them had disappeared into the stairwell, she turned and closed and locked the door, only to see the crippled man standing there, gazing at her with a stern brow, leaning on a crutch. Marguerite flushed, embarrassed, wondering how much of her impassioned ranting he had heard.

"And where is this wounded cat you are tending?" said the man, cocking his head at her.

"I-- I-- don't know why I said that," Marguerite said quickly.

"And you are to fill my apartment with love until it spills from the windows?" he goaded, his lips twitching to the right.

His tone provoked a sense of rebellion in her so that she raised her eyes to his. She gazed into his fearsome face without flinching, and marched up to him, and stood on tiptoe, and kissed the mass of scar tissue covering his left cheek.

"Yes," said she. "Will you try to stop me?"

"No, but the cat might," he said, and his lips curled into a crooked smile.