In all, he waited an hour before they gave up searching for him, a full hour bleeding beneath a tenement staircase. There were rats, but not nearly as aggressive as those monsters in the trenches. He also took a little comfort from the fact that he knew the terrain.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

THE room was large and bare with yellowing plaster and a skylight. The bed had been placed by the stove, a faulty leg secured with bricks. There was a window that provided only a restricted view of the cobbled street. There were several sketches along the wall but nothing recognizable.

From Gray's first moments here he had the thought that it had all begun in a room just like this: a narrow mattress beside a wrought -iron stove, bare floorboards, and rainclouds through a skylight. Even the weather seemed the same—a late winter chill well into May.

His Good Samaritan was an aging model he'd once used and befriended, Marie Leclerc. She'd never much cared for Zelle, but she'd never forgotten Gray's kindnesses. A physician was summoned. The bullet was found embedded in the bone. Then followed eight more days fighting infection and fever. A small quantity of morphine had been left for the physical pain, but there was nothing anyone could do about the danger.

And that was it—an empty room, a bed by the stove, rows of bloody bandages on a table. After ten days he finally was able to sit, but still not to walk. After another week he could walk, but only as far as the window. More than once an unexpected knock at the door had sent him into the closet to crouch behind old clothes, forgotten canvases and boxes of yellowing letters. Twice he reopened his wound reaching for objects on the nightstand.

He had been bedridden about three weeks when Vadime de Massloff showed up—more or less like the shaggy dog he had always been—apparently in response to a letter from Marie Leclerc. He arrived in the rain with a black patch over his left eye—another souvenir from Verdun. Gray had been dozing, still weak with a fever. The rain, the physical surroundings were all reminiscent of their first days together.

"How are you, Nicky?"

Gray managed a smile, but the rest remained immobile: the numb left arm, the tired right, the infected shoulder.

"I heard about her," de Massloff said.

Gray nodded. "Yes, I imagine everyone's heard by now."

"And I'm sorry, Nicky. I'm honestly sorry, but I hardly think—"

"She's innocent, Vadime. She's innocent and I can prove it."

De Massloff got up from the chair opposite the bed, searching for something to use as an ashtray. There were still traces of blood on the floor, still odors of sulphur and disinfectant.

"You didn't ask what happened to my eye," he said at last.

Gray took a deep breath. "All right, Vadime, what happened to your eye?"