Aimée picked her way carefully down the stairs to the courtyard. It was freezing cold: she had recovered her thick travelling cloak from the place it had been lying for the last three months and she clutched it tight around her shoulders. When she reached the cobbled yard, she stood quietly for a few moments, trying to work out if anybody might still be around. Hearing nothing, she stepped forward cautiously until her outstretched hands felt the side of the carriage. Feeling her way to the door, she climbed up into the velvet-clad interior and was stopped dead by a voice.
‘Is it you?’ The voice was less than a foot from her ear. ‘Aimée, is it truly you?’
She started, casting around for the source of the voice, recognising it, but unwilling to believe her ears. It was as if she had drifted back in time, and none of the horrors of the past months had happened.
‘Luc? It is you Luc, isn’t it?’ Instinctively she kept her voice to a hoarse whisper. Indeed, she could hardly remember a time when she had been able to address him in any but hushed tones.
‘It’s me, Aimée. It’s really me.’ His voice was as charged with emotion as hers. ‘I’m up here, in the baggage rack. Can you see me?’
See him? The overwhelming tragedy of her circumstances struck her like a mallet. In the space of a few seconds, she totally lost the precarious control she had gradually been able to establish over her emotions. A wave of misery washed up and over her, drowning rational thought and reducing her to a sobbing wreck. The carriage creaked and then she felt herself enveloped in a bear hug. There was no mistaking the broad shoulders and powerful arms. It was truly Luc. She abandoned herself to her sorrow and wept uncontrollably.
‘Aimée, Aimée, oh Aimée.’ She felt him tighten his grip on her as he was overcome in turn. There was nothing either of them could or needed to say. They stayed like that for an age, while she sobbed out her desperation. Finally she came to her senses. She shook herself back to the dangerous reality of their present situation.
‘Luc, Luc,’ she hissed violently into his ear until he relaxed his grip. She reached up to his face with her hands. There were tears on his cheeks and she could feel his chest heave with emotion. She couldn’t tell if the tears were his or hers. She fought hard to keep control of her emotions.
‘Listen to me, Luc. Listen. Luc?’ Her insistent tone finally roused him from his introspection and she knew that she had his attention.
‘Bertrand’s dead, Luc. Do you hear me? He’s dead. He was killed this winter and I was the only survivor. Do you understand?’
She felt, rather than saw, his eyes studying her at close range. A sharp intake of breath told her he had realised.
‘That’s right, Luc. I’m blind. I’m blind, but it doesn’t matter. Do you understand? It doesn’t matter. We’re going to get out of here and carry out Bertrand’s mission, your mission, our mission. Speak to me, Luc.’ Her voice tailed off despairingly, but he was back with her now.
‘Oh dear sweet Jesus. Oh dear Lord God Almighty. Is there no end to it?’ His voice was bitterly saddened, but rational once more. ‘Tell me about it.’
So she told him. She told him more than she had told anybody up till then. She told him about the laughter, the taunts, the obscenities and the searing pain of it all. She told him about the deep sensation of disgust and defilement that had made her, and still often made her, want to end her life, in the hope of a cleaner, purer future. She told him about the cuts, the bruises and the blows that had finally brought blessed oblivion. And how from oblivion she had awoken into a colourless world of loneliness. She told him all this without once breaking down. It was as if another was recounting her experiences, and she had become a mere spectator. When she finally came to a halt, she felt his hand against her cheek and heard his voice, little more than a whisper.
‘I’m here now, Aimée. I’ll take care of you. I promise.’