As long as you're still breathing

The sound of people’s footsteps danced in the distance, like a warm murmur rising like a lament in the shadows. Before André’s eyes, veiled by the near-total blindness that threatened to take away the last vestiges of light they could still hold, a familiar silhouette was outlined against the glow of the flames, indistinct as a dream about to fade. An inclement pang pierced his chest like a lightning bolt of agony that wrenched a groan from his parched lips, cracked by his labored breath.

“You’re finally awake,” whispered a familiar voice, as sweet as an echo of spring, cracked by a contained sob. It was Oscar, the woman he loved. She had watched over him day and night, with the fierce devotion of one who guards not just a life, but the very reason for her existence. That voice, even on the brink of death, reminded him that he still had reasons to cling to life.

“How do you feel?” she inquired with a mixture of sweetness and anguish.

She had been watching over him for four nights, sleeping no more than absolutely necessary, resisting exhaustion with all the strength her weakened body was capable of. She took his hand tenderly. André, with his unwavering optimism, tried to manage a smile, though the effort wrenched a slight shudder from him.

“Grateful... and happy that you are here,” he said, with his habitual warmth, in a thread of a voice. “Though my body... feels very heavy.”

Oscar moved closer, her trembling hands smoothing the bandage covering her beloved’s shoulder.

“The bullet did a lot of damage,” she said, her voice tinged with a relief that did not hide her fear. “The doctor assured that a little more... and you wouldn’t be here. Thank God it wasn’t so. Alain helped me take you to a safe place after the shot. We found someone who contained the hemorrhage until we could bring you to this place. Now, you need to rest.”

André blinked, as if he needed to return to reality. His mind still wandered among fragments of gunpowder, screams, and blood; he clearly felt the spasms of pain in his body.

“And the boys...? How are they?”

Oscar’s face darkened, her eyes lost in an abyss of guilt and pain. Little less than a week had passed, but the memory of the events still tormented her, an echo reverberating in her soul.

She began to evoke what happened on that fateful July 13th.

When the bullet intended for her hit André, something inside her tore violently. The pain, sharp and unbearable, had pierced her with an intensity she had never known. In that instant, she cursed having been born a woman, moved by the unfathomable conflict that consumed her: she loved with the same intensity with which she fought. Seeing André collapse, bleeding, had robbed her of the very notion of time and the world. She felt that, if he died, she would also die, as if his life were the thread that held hers. The magnitude of her grief was such that she thought she was going to lose her mind.

By that time, Oscar had collapsed, on her knees on the blood-soiled pavement, unable to react, broken, plunged into weeping that seemed to have no end, crying out to heaven in the midst of her mental torture when suddenly, like an answer from above, a petite figure emerged from the prevailing confusion. A mature woman in long, simple clothes approached with a firm step, moved by the feminine cries that stood out in the confusion. Her gaze was clear, contrasting with her fragile appearance. Alain, paralyzed by uncertainty, observed in silence, a mute witness to the event.

Without a word, she tore a piece of her skirt and applied a tourniquet to André’s shoulder.

“This will keep him alive, but he must be attended to now,” she said firmly, pointing to the east. “At the end of the street, to the left, there is a hospital with a brown gate. Say Esmeé Larray sent you.”

Oscar and Alain nodded, grateful though overwhelmed by the magnitude of the tragedy and by what had just happened. Alain, who until then had centered all his attention on remaining upright, became aware that his leader was in no condition to return to the battlefield. Oscar, for her part, could not stop crying. Despite the providential intervention of the mysterious woman, who vanished as quickly as she arrived, tears kept welling from her eyes, like an impossible river to contain.

As best they could, they advanced with André to the address the woman gave them. A small man opened the door and received the wounded man.

“If we stop the hemorrhage now, he might survive,” he said with the calm proper to his profession. From his apron, he extracted clean cloths and two glass vials that gleamed under the dying light. “Hold him.”

Oscar and Alain obeyed, moved by pure instinct. The doctor placed his tools beside André’s body, which lay stretched out on a cot, and gently removed the bloody shirt, revealing the bullet hole, a dark point bleeding mercilessly. The man cleaned the wound with a solution that stung, provoking a low moan from his patient. His hands, firm and steady, applied a bandage and a tourniquet that contained the crimson flow with almost miraculous efficacy.

“That will suffice for now,” he announced serenely, “but I need to monitor his progress. It is necessary that someone stays to care for him; right now we don’t have much staff...”

Oscar remained clinging to André’s hand, sobbing. The fortitude that so characterized her had slipped away like water through her fingers.

“Brigadier,” Alain said, holding her by the shoulders with a mixture of firmness and entreaty. “Control yourself, please. You must be strong... for him.”

She raised her face, soaked in tears.

“Alain, what will we do? The boys need us! We have to go back!” she almost screamed with a trembling voice, torn by desperation.

Although his countenance remained firm, Alain was also broken. It hurt him. It was too evident that André’s burning love for his captain was reciprocated with equal fervor and devotion, and that hurt him. It hurt him as a man, because he would have wanted to be the one to occupy André’s place in Oscar’s heart. It hurt him as a soldier, because he knew that Oscar, always whole, always indomitable, had reached the limit of her strength. She was no longer the officer who commanded respect on the battlefield; she was simply a woman, overwhelmed by the fear of losing the man she loved.

He looked at her, scrutinizing her distraught face. In her eyes, he read the conflict that devastated her with the force of ten storms. Oscar was torn between returning with her men to the front or staying beside André, whose thread of life hung by a sigh. Alain understood everything in an instant. He knew that, if André died, she would have no reason to keep living. And he... he wanted her to live.

“Not that, not you,” he said in a grave and cutting voice. “You are staying.” He paused briefly, letting his words sink in. “You cannot leave him alone. You heard the doctor. As for the troops... trust me. Promise me you will trust me to command in your place.”

She kept a moment of silence, processing the implications of the offer.

“I don’t intend to abandon this yet,” she said in a low voice. “Not while my men are still fighting.”

“Brigadier, isn’t it also honorable to know when to withdraw?” Alain inquired, straining to maintain composure. “Are you going to abandon to his fate the man who has just been shot to protect you? Forgive me, but I believe the least he deserves is for you to stay and care for him until he is stable.”

The words hung in the air. Oscar blinked, surprised. Her weeping stopped. She nodded in silence, too exhausted to argue, too grateful to resist. Alain had made the decision for her... and she allowed it. Her heart contracted violently, pierced by a deep and warm gratitude. She still did not understand the weight that decision would have on her own future and that of the nation.

“Do not worry,” the regiment leader said, attempting a slight smile to encourage his superior. “I will take charge of everything. I will go to the barracks and explain the situation to them.”

Oscar barely managed to bow her head and nod.

“Alain, how can I thank you?”

“By preserving your life,” he said as he squeezed her hand in a final gesture of camaraderie. She could not imagine that, that night, upon dismissing him after crossing the door that would lead him to the street, she was saying a definitive goodbye.

“Oscar...” He heard the sound of his name in André’s soft voice, and that hoarse melody abruptly pulled her from her memories. A solitary tear slid down her cheek without asking permission, trying to relieve the pressure that still oppressed her soul.

“A few days ago,” she whispered, her voice cracked by a contained sob, “shortly after you were wounded... Regiment B, under Alain’s command, participated in a revolt that culminated with the taking and fall of the Bastille prison at the hands of the people.”

André felt the weight of ten carriages falling upon his chest as if it were a stampede.

“All of our friends,” Oscar continued with a breaking voice, “offered their lives for the cause...”

A profound silence settled between the two, heavy as lead. André understood without need for her explanation. With that clarity offered only by premonitions born of the soul, he knew that Oscar had stayed by his side after the shot, and that was why she was not at the battle. If Alain had not taken her place... it would have been she leading the men that day. Undoubtedly, it would have been she who had died. And in that instant, he knew it with absolute certainty: his life had been saved by love... and by an act of loyalty he could never forget.

André slightly turned his face towards his beloved, and despite the pain, allowed himself to brush with his trembling fingers the hand Oscar kept over his. She softened at the contact of his warm and gentle skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in barely audible voice. “I’m sorry for not being there with you... I’m sorry that everyone has...”

Oscar shook her head, closing her eyes tightly.

“No. Don’t say that. You were... you are.” Her voice broke like crystal under pressure. “They are gone, yes... but it was not in vain. They fought for something they believed in. Alain... Alain knew there would be no turning back. And yet he did it. He did it for me, for you... for everyone.”

They kept silence again, not because there was nothing more to say, but because words fell short before the torrent of emotions that overwhelmed them. In the midst of the night’s silence, the distant sound of horse hooves and the echoes of a tumultuous people reminded them that the revolution had only just begun.

But in that room, in that instant suspended in time, everything was different. Only the two of them existed. Wounded, broken... but alive.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said suddenly, as if those words had been burning inside her for days. André looked at her with sweetness, with that simple and deep love that characterized him.

“I promised you I was going to follow you to hell,” he whispered in response.

She lowered her gaze, moved. She had been trained to silence the soul and wield the sword. She had learned to hide every heartbeat, every emotion, under the weight of her duty. But she could not do it anymore, so she just let herself go and gave him a tender kiss, which she interrupted immediately, fearful that the display of her love might hurt the already battered body of the man she considered her husband.

The morning light began to filter through the curtains, casting a pale clarity over the room. The air smelled of medicine, dried herbs, clean bandages, and old wood. And yet, for her, it was the sweetest aroma in the world, because it meant he was still alive.

The blonde remained seated by the bed, her fingers interlaced with André’s. Although he had fallen asleep again, his breathing was calmer, less labored. She observed him in silence, attentive to every slight gesture of his face, as if the smallest change could alter everything.

In the quietness of that dawning morning, her thoughts began to turn clearer... or perhaps harsher. For years she had been her family’s shield, the soldier faithful to the crown, the flawless captain. But now, seeing André so fragile, prostrate, dependent, she felt... other.

Had she failed? Or was she finally allowing herself to be? The love she felt disarmed her in a way that not even a thousand rifles would have achieved. It had taken away her armor and showed her the humanity she herself had buried under layers of discipline. And, for the first time in so many years, she was not afraid of that part of herself.

A slight creak interrupted her thoughts. The door slowly opened and two familiar figures crossed the threshold with measured steps. Rosalie brought a basket with clean cloths and Bernard, always sober, carried some documents under his arm.

“Good morning, Oscar,” Rosalie said with a warm but tired smile. “Is it true that André woke up last night? A nurse mentioned it.”

Oscar nodded without speaking, and barely was it then that André opened his eyes again.

“Rosalie? Bernard?” His voice was a weak echo. “How much time has passed?”

“Five days,” Bernard responded gently. “You have been in a state of semi-consciousness. The doctor said it was a miracle you didn’t die, but the blood loss was severe. Your body needed to rest; you cannot move for at least two more weeks, then, if everything goes well, you can resume activities little by little, but not before four months.”

“Four months?” André repeated, blinking with incredulity. “That much time?”

Rosalie approached with a soft smile, carrying in her hands a small porcelain bowl filled with cooked apple, pureed. She held it out to Oscar with maternal sweetness.

“The doctor says your youth and strength have played in your favor,” she commented while observing André with relief. “If it were not so, most likely you would have died instantly. You are stabilized... but not yet out of danger. Oscar has barely moved from your side since you arrived here. She has been untiring, day and night, caring for you.”

Bernard sat in an armchair by the window, with his back straight and his eyes fixed on the silhouette of the military woman. Oscar looked like a shadow of herself: eyelids overcome by exhaustion, features sharpened by worry, deep dark circles shading a face beautiful but withered by sadness... although now, at least, a faint gleam of hope illuminated her eyes.

“Yesterday I was at your house,” Bernard said as he pulled out an envelope and held it out to her. “I took the liberty of contacting your family personally. Your father was not in, but your mother received me. I informed her that you and André were here. She was desperate... she believed both of you had died in last week’s confrontations. Since they did not find your bodies, they gave you up as missing. I understand she will send someone for you this afternoon and you will be moved to a safe place. In the envelope, there is money to pay for these days in the hospital and to buy some provisions. She gave it to me directly, but I think you will know how to put it to better use.”

“Thank you, Bernard. Truly I am very grateful...”

“One favor is paid with another, my dear Oscar,” the journalist responded, elegantly smoothing the lapel of his coat. “For now, all I desire is that André recovers soon and you can get home. You are alive, and that is already a victory.”

She turned her gaze towards the window, as if in the reflections of the glass she could find the right words. The memory hit her with the softness of a melancholic breeze.

“I have to go get some clothes to change, I cannot go on like this...”

“In that case I will go with you, although it will be better if you hurry,” Bernard said, standing up. “I imagine they should not take long to arrive.”

Oscar sighed deeply. When she stood up, an involuntary shudder ran through her body. She brought a hand to her mouth, perhaps as an instinctive gesture to hide the dizziness... but upon removing it, her fingers were stained with a crimson thread. Bernard and Rosalie remained paralyzed, both their faces painting a gesture of incredulity.

“It cannot be...” Bernard murmured, just before rushing towards her. He managed to catch her in his arms as Oscar’s body gave way, collapsing in a sudden faint. A drop of blood slid down the corner of her lips, like a silent presage of the price of her sacrifice.