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For Marguerite.
It has become my mantra, my one sustaining tenet among the fog of hunger, pain, and the unendurable fatigue. Honor is a fine word and a finer sentiment, and one upon which I have built my life, but it goes only so far. I will never tell them the child’s whereabouts—I can still feel the little body in my arms, worn almost to nothing, the tiny, dirty hand warm in mine as we walked, the drowsy trust in the glance directed once more at me as I transferred him into Hastings’ arms. There is something about a sleeping child that stirs the deepest in us, a strange, sweet ache at their utter surrender—it is for more than the thrill of the chase that they follow me, though some deny the sentiment even to themselves, and it is for more than to spite Chauvelin once more that I endure this now.
And I do not trust Heron’s promises of safe passage for whomever brings the boy, and the thought of telling Yvonne, Suzanne, that I have bought my life with the blood of their husbands…No. I will not, cannot give in to them—but there is another capitulation demanded of me, by my own body, and they think I will yield to them in fear of the other surrender…but that holds less fear for me than dishonor.
I could, I think, simply allow it. Just once forego this ash-like bread, the dry crumbs that scrape my throat, and my body would at last betray me—just once accept that torpor, the dim unconsciousness that I know is more than sleep and that hovers always just beneath my thoughts, which I know I would never wake from…leave this squalid cell the only way I can. And but for her…
For Marguerite. For my wife, my Margot, the heavenly gift my blind pride nearly lost me. I have broken her heart, wrung her soul, caused her tears enough—I saw in her eyes an agony that makes my hell a paradise. For her I go on…for her I hold on…for her I pray for strength, not release, for the courage to bear this exhaustion, the throbbing pains, the gnawing hunger one moment more.
One more minute, I tell myself, and it will be past bearing, and I will give in, and plead that He take me now and be her comfort—and then the minute comes and goes, and I pray to bear one minute more.
For Marguerite. For the tears in her eyes that I will kiss away, and the sparkle of laughter I will call to those eyes again. I hold her face before me—her radiant eyes, her glorious hair, the smile that will quicken my pulse always…I love her too much to give in now.
Even now, when all my ideals are fast crumbling before their torture, when my body cries for relief, one way or the other, when my honor is challenged and my courage is at the ultimate test—I will hold on. I will, I must bear it the one moment more, and the next, and the next. Strength…strength, my dear Lord, please…I have to hold on. My heart that beats for her will beat as long as I can make it.
For Marguerite. For Marguerite, for Marguerite, for Marguerite…