Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [428]
Sweat ran stinging into both his eyes, and the discomfort pried him out of this agreeable daydream. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead, and fanned himself with the brim, staring absently toward the gate, through which he’d very much like to be gone. A black nurse, trim in a blue dress and white headband, was working her way along the row of mats with a pail of water and a gourd dipper. The doctor walked behind her, his face in shadow under his straw hat, and when she’d given each man a drink, he stooped to take a pulse or exchange a word or two.
Then the nurse had dropped her pail and the doctor had pushed past her, was hurrying up toward the place where Daspir stood. The straw hat had flown off, but he did not notice it.
“C’est la crise,” Madame Fortier said dispassionately. Her long shadow spread over Paltre’s torso. It is the crisis. Paltre had convulsed and sat up sharply, his knees drawing tight to his chest. His mouth was crusted with a black rime, and blackened blood was running from his nose and even, Daspir saw with an awful fascination, from the corners of his eyes. He sucked for air without success and shuddered, and his eyelids sank shut with a heavy weight, but the balls still twitched beneath them. Nanon was trying to stretch him out, murmuring, pressing a hand to his chest, but Paltre fought her, struggling to hold up his head.
“She’s stopping his breath,” Cyprien hissed through the scented cloth he held over his mouth and nose. But anyone could see that it was the fever stopping Paltre’s breath and not Nanon. Above the cloth, Cyprien’s eyes darted frantically. Daspir could not bear to look and could not look away. Paltre bared his teeth in a terrible grin. The teeth were covered in yellow-white scum. On a front tooth, one of those fat black buzzing flies alighted. Madame Fortier dangled her horsetail whisk from under a folded elbow, but she did not trouble to flick the fly away. Nor could Daspir break his frozen posture to brush away the insect. Paltre arched his neck, and the fly hummed away of its own accord. Nanon cradled his head in her joined hands.
“Do something,” Guizot grated out of his misery.
“Rien à faire,” the doctor said. There is nothing to do. He’d dropped to one knee beside Nanon, and was trying to disengage her. Then all the muscles of Paltre’s body slackened and he lay flat, and Nanon let go of his head and sat back on her heels. Paltre was motionless, save for a twitching around his eyes. His head lay again in the shadow of Madame Fortier’s skirt. Then the twitching stopped, and Madame Fortier turned and walked away, leaving Paltre’s grinning skull exposed to the sudden glare of the sun.
The captains were all avoiding each other’s eyes. The doctor lifted Paltre’s wrist, then laid it down. Daspir took note of the stiffness that had already set into the arm. Cyprien lowered his handkerchief.
“You let him die,” Cyprien said. It was not clear whether he meant to address the doctor or Nanon or both of them together. “You—”
“Stop it,” Guizot said. “Just be silent.” And Cyprien stopped his mouth with the handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, blinking slowly through his dusty glasses. When no one spoke, he turned to call for help in moving the body.
“No, we’ll do it,” Guizot said, with a glance at Daspir. And Daspir stooped and lifted Paltre’s body by his bare feet, while Guizot caught him underneath his emaciated shoulders. There was no weight to him. The rags of his ruined uniform dripped from his bones. Directed by the doctor, they carried him to the gate and let him down beside five or six bodies of other men who’d perished in the course of the day.
Cyprien overtook and passed them without a glance, walking stiff-legged toward the gate. Guizot took the doctor’s hand and pressed it and turned wordlessly away. But Daspir