A Soldier's Love

10. I Am Dying, What Can They Want?

Someone knocked on the door of the flat of the man on Rue Danton, and Marguerite cursed softly to herself. Jack seemed not to notice. He kept right on speaking in a low, flat voice until Marguerite begged him to pause.

"Darling, someone is at your door," she said. "I must go see what they want."

"I am dying, what can they want?" the Corporal muttered. "Go see who it is, but please be quick, Margie. I need you fretfully."

"Yes, of course, Corporal Harrington," said the girl, bending to kiss the middle of his sweaty brow.

A suspicion loomed in her mind as to who it was and when she opened the door, yes, both her parents were there, looking gravely serious. Her father had a cane for his gouty knees and her mother wore a voluminous blue scarf and they both had hollow, worried eyes and pale faces.

"Well, at least you're alive," said Mama Bartelle. "You had better stay alive so I can spank you properly when you get home."

"Or perhaps she's not coming home. She's eloped with her mysterious suitor, eh?" Papa Bartelle forced a smile, a hopeful smile. "Oh, please, pigeon, come home to us."

"Won't either of you just ask me why I'm here?" she huffed. "I'll tell you the whole story later, but for now, I'll tell you, I cannot come home yet."

"Why not?" Papa Bartelle came nearer the door, and put his hand out. "I miss you, my pigeon, my darling little flower. I cannot manage the shop without you."

Tears welled in Marguerite's wide blue eyes. "I'll be home as soon as I can, Papa, but right now--" Her voice cracked when she heard Jack coughing. "He's dying. Slow and painful and awful."

"Who is?" said the mother.

"The man on Rue Danton, the man who lives here, the one whom everybody is so afraid of!" Marguerite's chin quivered. "Only he's not fearsome at all! He's been alone and sick for ages and ages, and when I came here I found him very ill, and he almost shot me but then he didn't and I helped him to bed and I must go care for him now. Mama, Papa, he's dying of consumption, and you hear him coughing, he's helpless, probably spitting up blood all over himself right this moment--"

"Unlock the door, Marguerite, I'm coming in," said Mama Bartelle, her features hard and grim.

"Mama, no," the daughter whispered. "I'll not leave."

"I'm not asking you to leave, I said I'm coming in," said the mother, removing her thick blue scarf. "I've tended my share of death-beds in my time. A death of consumption is a fearful thing to watch, and I'll not let my sweet girl endure it alone."

"Mama!" Margie cried, throwing the door open, and embracing her mother, and hurrying back to the bedroom. Sure enough, the pillow and blankets were all blotched with wet scarlet-colored patches of blood, as were his pyjamas, and Marguerite patted his lips futilely with a somewhat clean towel, murmuring to him in soothing tones.

"Gracious God," whispered Mama Bartelle, surveying the scene in slack-jawed amazement. She turned around to see her husband lingering in the hall. "Richard, hire a cab, my love. Go home quickly. Send Pierre over here with the cart. Have him bring clean linens, as many as he can carry, clean pyjamas, blankets, a bottle of morphine, and my Bible."

Without a word, the father nodded and left.

"I was very angry with you before I got here," Mama Bartelle said, tears slipping from her eyes as she watched Marguerite try to comfort the dying man. "But now, I am as proud as a mother could be. You are a good girl, Marguerite Angelique Bartelle, and you have done right by your family and by God."