Chapter Text
Eyes in the eyes. So close that they could see themselves reflected in each other's irises. Faces that knew each other really well. His lightly tanned skin, his regular nose, that beauty spot hiding between the hairline on the temple; hey long eyelashes, the bangs falling a little on the left, the diaphanous neck. And then breath getting deep, the fresh wind of Normandy blowing in the bedroom moving the white linen curtains.
Above them, the ceiling painted of a new, shining whiteness. The candles on the chandelier still unlit, crystal drops moved lightly when they met the air and reflected the rainbow of light from outside on the wall. There was a shiny sun that afternoon. It warmed the sea – a placid expanse of water as turquoise as the spring sky.
Beneath them, a large, soft bed with heavy sheets to combat the cold of the night. And the floor covered with an oriental rug, beneath the wooden chest.
In silence.
They exchanged not a single word, not a hint of thought, not the vaguest attempt to ease a stillness that had never belonged to them. And yet, everything was so clear, so evident. They had needed moments like these—moments of utter calm—for such a long, long time. All that had been missing was the right occasion.
As children (before both their lives changed forever), it sometimes happened that, instead of making peace, they would smooth over their disagreements by lying down on the ground, eyes fixed on the sky. Side by side. Saying and doing nothing. They could remain silent for hours, letting their blood cool and their hearts slow. It wasn’t always necessary to solve things with blows and fists.
But now they were adults. And adults do not lie on the floor. Yet they could still sit with their backs against the bed, knees bent as if seated. By now both of them reached the carpet with their shoes.
- André…
She took his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers.
- Tell me, Oscar.
- I don’t want to die.
He tightened his grip. - You won’t die.
- How can you be so sure?
He smiled. - Because it’s you.
She rested her forehead on his shoulder. A tight-lipped smile. Infinite gratitude, though tinged with weariness.
She looked at him again.
She wanted to kiss him. Yes, kiss him. Hold him close, bury her fingers in his dark hair that smelled so good. But was it allowed? Was it right? She had wanted this for months now.
And for even longer she had known she loved him. Since that assault at the faubourg Saint-Antoine from which everything else had followed. The coughing, Dr. Lassonne’s visits, the blood, the removal from the Metropolitan Guard, the refuge in Normandy. And the love.
Love for André, a deep and primal feeling, overwhelming yet estranging. Oscar could sit next to him on the balcony for half an hour without speaking, just to get some air. Eyes closed, lungs open.
Inhale.
Exhale.
She imagined reaching out, taking his hand. Holding it tightly, unseen. And even if someone had seen them…
But now she had found the courage. The courage born of the fear of dying, of losing everything. The kind that gives you strength to say what you fear to spoil, or to do what you dread you might never recover.
Inhale.
Exhale.
- What will you do without me?
- Nothing.
She frowned. - Nothing?
- Nothing.
- That’s impossible. You’ve never done nothing. I’ll write to my father to take you back at the palace. At least you won’t be forced to return to a barracks where I can’t be sure you’re safe.
- Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.
- How…?
- Because I won’t need it. You won’t die. You’ll go back to your life as it was. If you want me, I’ll still be at your side.
She smiled. A little weary, but happy. If André believed it so strongly, then it must be so.
- When we were young and you lay unconscious in bed for a couple of days, after the princess’s accident…
- …I dreamt we were children.
- I remember. And I stayed always, always by your side. I slept on the chair next to your bed. Though sometimes I thought you wouldn’t make it, you surprised everyone and woke up.
- But I didn’t… - She hesitated. That word still held her back. - I didn’t have tuberculosis.
André smiled in response. Such a strange reaction to her words.
- Not now, either.
- …André.
- Forgive me. - He said, tightening his grip slightly. - I meant, not anymore.
He was sure Oscar was recovering. He heard her coughing less, she no longer had a fever. Her face had regained a healthy color and her bones stood out less. And though André still had trouble with his right eye, all this was plain to him.
He turned slightly. He had wanted to kiss her for so, so long. Perhaps even too long. Perhaps Alain was right when he told him not to love her, to simply admire her—because that was all someone like him could aspire to from someone like her. But still, he longed for their lips to meet, even to taste the iron tang of her blood if he had to. To hold her, wrap her in an embrace, and touch her skin that was finally warm again.
He brought his other hand to her cheek, silently telling himself he was crossing a forbidden line. That he must not dare err again. That touching her was forbidden. Because that one time he had, Oscar had suffered.
But in truth he allowed himself that touch because once, she had tacitly given him permission. One morning when they were walking on the beach and her thin shoulders were covered by a heavy shawl. And so, to keep from being cold, she had moved closer, closer, until she had brushed, and then for an instant caressed, his wrist.
Oscar looked at him, slightly surprised. It seemed to her André had read her mind, the imagined tremor shaking her muscles with the desire (the madness!) for it to happen. She felt his fingers on her. Soft, delicate. Moving slowly to tuck her hair behind her ear. The pad of his thumb brushed lightly against her skin, a little flushed from embarrassment.
I don’t want to die. Not now that I have him again.
I don’t want to go blind. Not now that I have her again.
Never in their lives had they found themselves in such a situation—of such intimacy, at least. Alone they had often been. But so close as to blend—soul and body—this was the first time.
They held back the instinct to erase the distance. To lose themselves in one another. To let their hands slip under clothing, removing it, letting only instinct, only their bodies speak.
And if they had? What would have happened? Who would have stopped them? Resist—for whom?
André read in Oscar’s eyes the silent plea to love her forever. Oscar saw in André’s single eye the promise never to spend a day without loving her.
- If I could, I would take you to see the world.
- It’s very big. When we were children it seemed to fit in the palm of our hand. When did it grow?
- When we stopped believing it was within our reach.
- Will you take me to the Republic of Pirates? We used to pretend we were there.
He smiled. A memory he thought he had forgotten. - I’m afraid the English wouldn’t welcome us now.
She sighed, like when she was small. - To Pondichéry? There are French people there.
- Pondichéry it is, mademoiselle. I’ve heard that during the rainy season the monsoon blows terribly strong.
André amazed her every time. He had an anecdote for everything, a curiosity for every doubt of hers. How he always managed to find them was still a mystery.
He enchanted her with the constant touch of his fingers on her cheek. Small, light movements that calmed her, relaxed her to the point she wondered if it was already acceptable to fall asleep there, together.
Her eyelids closed. By now they were heavy enough to offer no resistance. In an instant she was eight again without even noticing.
- André, you…
- Sleep, Oscar. There’s all the time to talk…
She opened her eyes. She wanted him to listen, and as he did, to see how serious she was.
- When it no longer makes sense to stay here, don’t go back to the Guard. Stay with your grandmother, take care of her. Make me this promise.
- Oscar, it’s a promise I can’t keep.
- Why, André?
- Because my presence here will still make sense. You’ll still be here. As radiant as you are again now.
She closed her eyes. For once she wanted to believe it was true. That the reflection in the mirror would give her back the image of a healthy woman. Or at least no longer a sick one.
It had been so long since she had looked at herself. She could not know that her face was bright again, her eyes a deep cornflower blue, her lips pink once more, her skin soft and no longer translucent.
She heard him hum an old lullaby. A village tune from a time when the two of them had not yet met. But their souls—those undoubtedly had known each other forever.
It was beautiful to watch her fall asleep peacefully. Breathing without effort, surrendered only to rest. Fighting nothing.
André had been reflecting for weeks now on Oscar’s recovery. Because she truly had changed. When her father had sent her to Normandy following doctor Lassonne’s tip (for such it was, even if given in good faith), she had been a completely different woman. In every way. Fragile, pale, always feverish. She moved and spoke with an almost exasperating slowness. And he had kept track of every change, every bloodstained handkerchief and how many she used a day, how many hours she slept, and whether she ate. So the doctors would know even what she didn’t tell them. And now… Well, now everything was truly different. She was becoming Oscar again: with everything that entailed. And she wanted to live—truly live! It was clear.
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
Dors, la nuit sera brève
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
- In the coming days… maybe tomorrow… I’d like to start fencing again.
- It might be a bit soon still… —He moved an arm to encircle her better, passing it over her side.
- I feel I can manage. A light training, nothing strenuous.
- We’ll see how you feel.
- I’m not a child anymore, André.
- Certainly. But you’ve been ill for a long time, and to recover properly you must give yourself the time you need.
Oscar nestled closer to him. Her forehead touched him. A hand rested lightly on his chest. She clutched at his shirt—a spontaneous reflex from childhood; when thunderstorms frightened her and she sought André through the palace rather than be alone.
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
Dors, la nuit sera brève
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
- Are you afraid of the dark, Oscar?
- Silly! I’m afraid of nothing! Soldiers like me are brave!
- Then why do you always come to sleep in my room?
- Because… Because you might be afraid and I don’t want you to be alone, that’s why.
- But I’m not! You know when I was little, I stayed up watching the lightning at night?
- Why?
- Because I liked it.
- You’re so strange…
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
Dors, la nuit sera brève
Dors, mon cœur émerveillé
I love you, Oscar.
I love you, André.