The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (24 page)

When the doctor was finished, he saw, to his surprise, that Grégoire's eyes were still open and aware. “That is it,” Dr. Maddox said.

Grégoire nodded. “My mind…cannot fully comprehend.”

“You've been ill for a long time, Grégoire. You need to rest and recover.”

“I have a request, but it is an imposition on your time, Dr. Maddox.”

Maddox smiled. “I'm partially retired, Grégoire. Go ahead.”

“Will you come tomorrow, and read it again?”

Dr. Maddox smiled. “Of course.”

CHAPTER 16

THE STORM CONTINUED into the night. Darcy watched Grégoire fall asleep after his evening dose of opium. He did not head to his room, even though he was tired. He saw no reason to get into his bed without Elizabeth, when he needed her so badly. Instead, he nodded off in the chair in Grégoire's room, sleeping uncomfortably for some time before he heard glass smashing. Instantly, he was awake, his eyes turning to the hazy source.

The glass on the table beside the bed had been knocked over and shattered on the floor. Grégoire, in a shirt and bedclothes, had attempted to stand up, and failed, hitting the ground and taking his sheets with him.

“Grégoire!” Darcy grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him back up. “You're not supposed to be—”

Grégoire spat in his face and tried to break free. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, and with his beard and unkempt hair, he looked unwell. “Let me go!” He said something else in what was probably Latin. “Please, let me go!” he repeated.

“Grégoire, I would gladly let you—”

“You can't do this to me!” his brother shouted, pounding his fists into Darcy's chest. “
Amitte me!
”

“You're not well,” Darcy said with a quiet forcefulness. “You have to sit back down.”

“
Noli me tangere, fili meretricis!
He left me! Everyone has left me!”

“I am here,” Darcy said. “I will stay here. The others—”

“
You did this to me!
You bastard, I was happy!” Grégoire cried. “I was so happy…” There was madness in his watery eyes. “So happy.”

Darcy was getting a little desperate, and hoped someone had heard them. He could hardly leave his brother in this condition in order to find a servant to wake Maddox. “You were killing yourself!”

“How do you know what it is, pain? It brings us closer to God—” He went almost limp for a moment, and Darcy succeeded in lifting him back up on the bed so he was at least sitting. “Even when…there's so much of it—”

“You need to lie back down!”

“
Subsisto is!
Stop telling me what I need! I didn't need Father's money. I didn't need it from you. I told you to stop it, and now you're going to kill me, just as you killed George—”

Darcy swallowed his first reaction, and instead said, “Grégoire, listen to me.You're sick—”

“I'm not sick! Just because I want to be a pious person, that makes me sick?” He grabbed Darcy's face. “I can see into your eyes. You're just hiding—you're afraid.
Ego sum non! I am not afraid!
” He pulled back, and swung what was meant to be a punch, but it was slow and weak and Darcy easily caught it.

He saw the red staining the shirt. “You're popping your stitches. Do you want to kill yourself?”

“Yes! Would that make you happy?” Grégoire said, struggling under Darcy's increasingly firm grip. “Napoleon's soldiers couldn't kill me, the church couldn't kill me; do you want to try?”

Darcy did the only thing he could think of, which was to kick over the table with all of the metal instruments, which clattered in a noise loud enough to be noticed by anyone nearby. “No one wants you dead.” He pushed him down again, and Grégoire cried out. Maybe he really
was
killing him.

“Mr. Darcy,” said a voice from behind him. “What is—oh, goodness.”

“Wake up the doctor.
Now,
” he said without looking back at the servant. “And send someone to help me in the meantime.” He turned back to Grégoire, who was still managing to struggle. “I will save you from yourself.”

“The abbot said that. Right before he cast me out. Grégoire, the rich bastard, can't be seen in the house of God!” He was weakening, having exerted himself more in the past few minutes than in many days. “I saw him. I saw the abbot, I saw the abbot in Munich, there was a terrible fire—he said something about a forge—I am not to be hammered!” He cried, “God forgive me, what good does God's forgiveness do? Am I to live or die?”

“Live!” he said as two servants burst into the room, where a bleeding madman was screaming at Mr. Darcy. Sizing up the situation, they quickly helped Mr. Darcy subdue the patient.

“Demons! Oh, God, please—I am to be forgotten and now damned?”

“You are not damned,” Darcy said. “You are just delirious—”

“
Vos es totus everto ex abyssus!
” he screamed. “
Diabolus genitus!
Where is my cross? Where is the merciful God?”

To that, Darcy did not know the answer. Fortunately, Dr. Maddox rushed into the room and he didn't have to. The doctor was still tying his bathrobe. “Oh, dear. Give me a moment.” He looked at the instruments spilled everywhere. “Give me two.”

“He's bleeding, Maddox!”

“I know! I know!” Dr. Maddox knelt on the ground and collected his things. “Candle!” One of the servants brought him a candle, which he held under a spoon, but Darcy was too distracted to observe the procedure. He smelled something burning. Then Dr. Maddox produced a cloth and put it over Grégoire's screaming mouth.

“Breathe,” he said, which was not an order that even his patient could disobey. In fact, Grégoire was gasping, and breathed very deeply. He collapsed quickly onto the bed, which was stained with
his own blood. Maddox removed the cloth and put a hand on Grégoire's forehead. “He has no fever, at least. Turn him over.”

With care, Darcy and the servants flipped Grégoire over. The shirt he wore buttoned in the back, and it was easy to open. Dr. Maddox had his tools ready now and looked at the wounds as more light was brought to them. “He managed to pop only a few. Turn away, Mr. Darcy,” he said, threading his needle.

“I won't leave him.”

“I don't want two patients,” Dr. Maddox said with his usual calm. “Just turn around.”

Darcy did as he asked, not relinquishing his hold on Grégoire's hand as he waited for Dr. Maddox to work. It was very brief, and then Dr. Maddox called for hot water and various other things from his lab, handing the keys to his manservant. “He will be all right.”

“He wasn't all right a few minutes ago.”

“He had a lot of opium and probably a bad dream.” He looked up at Darcy, trying to read his face. “Whatever he said to you, he didn't mean it.”

“He wanted to strike me. He tried.”

“Why not? I'd be angry if I were him and you were the closest person available.” He added, “He holds himself to an impossible standard. We, in turn, unintentionally do the same. He's only human, Darcy. Let him be angry for a little while. What else should he be?”

The manservant arrived with the ingredients and the others with the hot water and dishes, and Dr. Maddox carefully mixed a tea that smelled familiar. Grégoire, who was slowly returning to consciousness, was approached by a soft-spoken Dr. Maddox. “Please drink this. It will help you sleep.”

For whatever reason—probably pure exhaustion—Grégoire did not resist, and swallowed it in full. He took another cup, and then settled back on the pillow, not to stir again. Dr. Maddox ordered Darcy from the room. “Let someone else watch him.”

“I couldn't—”

“Leave him for a few hours,” Dr. Maddox insisted. “If you want, I'll keep watch.”

“You've done enough.”

“I have a patient who thinks otherwise. Now go. Clean yourself up a bit.”

Darcy could hardly take it as an insult; his sleeves were bloodied from holding down Grégoire.“May I—this is selfish of me, but may I have some of that tea?”

Dr. Maddox replied, “Of course.”

After a bath and a cup of that soothing concoction, Darcy finally slid into bed. He had taken care to wash off the grime underneath his fingertips from the fight, but they still did not look clean. Slowly, he dropped off into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, the rain abated. As London began to dry, Darcy braced himself to greet his brother. Not that he was afraid for himself—in fact, he had no idea whether Grégoire would even recall the incident—but it remained unsettling nonetheless. And that Dr. Maddox had been witness to it—well, the doctor had surely seen stranger things than a delirious patient.

Darcy had breakfast with Mrs. Maddox, as Dr. Maddox had just gone to sleep.The servant instructed him that Grégoire was in confession, and after a few minutes, a priest emerged. “Father, I am Grégoire's brother, Mr. Darcy.”

“Father LeBlanc.”

“How is my brother this morning?” It came out satisfactorily emotionless.

“Through God's mercy, he is less burdened,” said the priest, and excused himself. It only then occurred to Darcy that if Grégoire had said everything in confession, then the priest knew everything of the events previous to this.

Swallowing, Darcy entered Grégoire's chamber. The linen had been changed, as well as his clothing, and he lay on his side, awake and alert. “Good morning.”

“I apologize for my actions,” Grégoire said, never one to mince words. “I did not know what I said.”

“In a way, it needed to be said,” Darcy replied. “If I had known how to handle things differently, I would have. My road was paved with good intentions…and we know where that leads.”

Grégoire was silent.

“With any luck, Elizabeth and the children will arrive today,” said Darcy. “They must still be in horrible suspense about your condition and will be relieved to find you very much alive.” He paced as he spoke. “I was thinking—perhaps you would want to be shaved before you see the children. Otherwise, my younger ones might not recognize you.”

“That is true,” Grégoire said with a smile. “But I could not burden the Maddox servants—”

“Nonsense,” Darcy said. “You have no idea how good it will feel to lose a beard that you did not intend to grow. I will do it myself.”

Slowly, and without aid, Darcy shaved his brother's beard. He also shaved the sides, though there was some issue about whether those would be done. No, Grégoire was not willing to look like a sensible person just yet and had his sideburns shaved smooth. He had lost weight in his ordeal, and was not the picture of health, but years were taken off his appearance with the hair removed. Darcy was no barber and the hair on his head was left untouched, including the fuzzy remains of what had been his tonsure. “I am no longer allowed to have the crown of the church.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” his brother consoled him. “If Shakespeare can be believed.”

Grégoire laughed. It was a wonderful thing to hear.