#captain Louis Renault x reader

[free-for-all-fics]

Captain Louis Renault Prompt! Partially inspired by Mr. Sunshine. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 🤍🕵️‍♀️🖤

Your love of old films has been giving you black and white dreams lately, even though you’ve stopped watching them before bed. You accidentally fall asleep on a bus and, when you wake up, the black and white world has carried over. Everything is in grayscale as you find yourself on a train in the middle of Paris in 1942, while France is under the German jackboot. Well, not entirely. One small group of indomitable Frenchmen and Frenchwomen still hold out against the German invaders. The passengers on the train are segregated, with the wealthy in the extravagant front cars and the poor crammed into squalid tail compartments overseen by armed guards. You’re in a strange place of a foreign language, carrying a small bag with sparse supplies and wearing clothing that’s not yours. A plain wedding band adorns your hand, but you’re not married...are you? Someone sits next to you and you can’t believe it when you see a handsome man. You don’t know him, but feelings of love and familiarity suddenly wash over you. It’s almost overwhelming and you can do nothing but stare at him in stunned silence.

“Are you surprised that I caught you trying to leave me? Or are you pleased to see me? I wouldn’t let you leave without me, my dear.” The stranger teases you, saying you’re almost unrecognizable and he’s almost blinded by your beauty since you’re dressed like a woman for once.

For once? Have you usually dressed like a man? And, if so, what for? The stranger says that this mission’s top priority is the women and children must be sent away, as they’re the future. You’re traveling from Paris to Marseilles, which is just the beginning of the refugee trail to Casablanca. It’s said to be a city full of all kinds of characters, including refugees, smugglers, spies, and vultures looking to prey on them. There’s vultures everywhere! But it’s considered part of unoccupied France and neutral ground while under the jurisdiction of Vichy. It’s the shared hope of all these refugees that they can eventually obtain exit visas and board the plane to Lisbon and, from there, set sail on the clipper to America where they’ll be safe to begin their lives anew.

When you ask questions as if you don’t know what’s happening or where you are, the stranger tilts his head. His forehead creases and he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, as if you’re the one acting strange. He tells you that he’s your husband and that your hometown was overrun by the Occupation. They were rounding up people in droves and sending them to concentration camps with no explanation as to why. He saw great potential in you and recruited you as a spy for the French Resistance.

In Nazi-Occupied France, you met with your German "lover". When he finally allowed you a peek at the letters of transit he had come to possess, you confirmed the blank documents to be legit and not doctored or forged. While he was too distracted with trailing kisses up and down your neck and shoulders, you turned around, removed the pin from your hair and stabbed him through the neck with it. The blade was sharp enough to cut flesh as it posed no resistance. At once a fountain of red came from the wound, the ebb and flow in time with a terrified heart, killing the man all the faster. You stood watching as if you couldn’t hear his gurgles of pain, as if it were a silent theatre production of no importance. As he laid dying, you told him how much you were enjoying watching him die. You never moved at all until your mark was bled out. His red blood mingled with the beige carpet and gave it an earthy brown hue. Then you made a precise pivot turn and marched on, stealing the letters of transit as you made your escape. There was never even a spot of blood on your high polished boots.

Your escape was short-lived and you were later apprehended and arrested for your heinous crime but, by that point, you didn’t have the letters anymore. You already passed them off to your contact, Signor Ugarte, to be given back to you at a later time after you meet him in Casablanca. Your husband describes him as a small, thin man with a nervous air. He’s an unrepentant thief, assassin, and human trafficker, but he’s also an earnest and polite man that can be trusted to get the job done.

You had acted alone and your execution was scheduled for tonight but, through luck and quick thinking, your husband cleanly killed a guard, hid the body, and donned the dead man’s uniform. Apparently he’s a skilled liar and talented actor, so nobody batted an eye or questioned him as he just bailed you out and aided you in your escape. Young male rebels were assigned to steal German uniforms in order to infiltrate and board the train without interference. These men dressed in German uniforms facilitated the boarding process on the train. You and your husband disguised many rebels and refugees by giving them a change of wardrobe and, using the train tickets he recently purchased, you successfully snuck past the security checkpoints and got many rebels and refugees aboard this train, which is set for Marseilles. Your husband stayed behind with his group of associates and refugees that were under his charge while he let you and your group go ahead. He told you that he’d follow later, and charged you with doing anything and everything to maximize the safety of the passengers. 

He just now safely made it aboard with his group. So, here you are. You look back at your homeland, your beloved France, and wonder if you’ll ever return.

Everyone who knows you're a spy thinks you're an excellent one. You and your husband are the most successful spies in your division. Your husband is the classic suave, extroverted spy, which is merely used as a distraction so you, the introverted and quiet one, can sneak around and finish the jobs without interference. You both represent the hopes of everyone for a better future after World War II. But you've never had any sort of training and every one of your successes sound like they were just lucky accidents. You're not even sure who you work for! You don’t recall any of this. Not your allegiance to this group of Resistance fighters nor your marriage to one of its leaders, not the murder you committed, nor the subsequent jailbreak. It’s like you’ve been thrown in the middle of the story, in the brunt of the action, completely blind. The main thing is, you don't speak French. You’re not sure if you’re just experiencing a very vivid lucid dream or if any of this is indeed real, but it’s probably best to play along for now until you either wake up or find a way to return home to your normal reality. And there’s a part of you that’s curious as to how this’ll play out.

Your husband doesn’t divulge his or anyone’s name. No real names. Code names only, if even that. What they’re doing is highly illegal and extremely dangerous, and it works better for him, you, and everyone else involved if things are kept impersonal. It minimizes the risk of names of comrades and co-conspirators being betrayed to the Germans in case of capture. If you were brought to an interrogation cell, the Nazis would imprison you, torture you, and, in all probability, kill you in the pursuit of finding and crushing the Resistance. The rebels have been busy supplying weapons, supplying money, organizing teams of men and women, organizing escapes from prison camps, and more. They’ve been in France, blowing up bridges, blowing up train lines, cutting telephone lines. But it was very dangerous the whole time because the Germans were looking for you. They still are. You’re causing so much trouble for them, so it’s no surprise the Nazis want everyone involved dead. He outlines your journey to Casablanca and notes it’ll be difficult, even torturous. Ugarte will meet you at the end of the journey, at a place called Rick’s Café Américain.

He then shows you a photograph of a man. The photograph was clearly taken without the subject’s knowledge, but you can clearly see his face and profile. All his physical information is listed below, though reading that his eyes are brown or his hair is brown and graying does little to help you since you can’t see color. Captain Louis Renault is the corrupt Prefect of Police, noted to have a weakness for beautiful young women. Beautiful young women like you. As the Resistance’s foremost pickpocket, your current assignment is to find this Captain Louis Renault, worm your way into his life, and steal his heart (not literally). It’ll be tricky and extremely difficult since Renault’s heart is his least vulnerable spot. He’s your primary target and you need to get as close to him as possible through any means necessary, including sleeping with him if the situation calls for it. Whether it’s to obtain exit visas for refugees and rebels, to obtain valuable intel regarding your enemies to gain an advantage in the war, or for some other ulterior goal, you mustn’t blow your cover. And then—

Before your husband can continue debriefing you, a German solider suddenly declares rebels are on the train and orders the train delayed and all passengers searched. The young Frenchmen dressed in German uniforms tell you things may be going awry and you must work together to force the train to move before reinforcements arrive. The German soldiers search all passengers as they look for you, their recent death row escapee. Your husband tells you to sit quietly but look in your bag. He’s left you a gift.

You have a pistol, which you discreetly grip inside your bag. You’re armed and ready in case of trouble. How did your husband sneak this through? Well, it’s one of two guns he smuggled on the train by chatting up a rich man who was also looking to board. He told a little white lie and claimed that they had a mutual friend - the Nazi that was murdered. The rich man informed him that the Nazi was killed and that he ordered the German soldiers to capture any and all rebels aboard the train. Your husband walked toward the checkpoint and explained he was getting on the train to follow you, the woman he loves, though he didn’t mention you by name. He followed closely behind the man and they both walked through the checkpoint without interference from the Germans.

Back in the present moment, your comrades in German uniforms cover you so you can make your way to the front of the train without rousing suspicions. You and another rebel hold the engineer at gunpoint, threatening him to get the train moving. Fearing death, he has no no other choice and does as he’s told. While you leave, the uniformed rebel closes the door behind you and stays with the engineer to make sure he keeps the train moving and that there’ll be no further interruptions from the actual Germans. When you return to your seat without being spotted, your husband tells you that you did excellently getting the train going and, in response, you tell him you’re the wife of an excellent Frenchman. The declaration warms his heart. He asks you to endure a little longer until you reach the tunnel. He asks you not to cry. He says,

“This is my history and my love story. That’s why I’m going. I pray for your success.”

He spies the German soldiers in the next car and pulls out his pistol, loading a single bullet into the chamber. He tells you that he must head to the first class. You grab his hand, asking what he’s doing with only a single bullet. He stares into your eyes and you stare back as he promises he’ll use the bullet wisely. You both stare at your entwined hands as your wedding bands glint in the light. He gets up and walks away. You’re left to stare after him, knowing it could be the last time you see him. One of the rebels in a German uniform tries to stand in front of you to obscure you from sight of an actual German soldier.

The German soldier asks questions the rebel can’t answer, which raises his suspicions. He shoves the rebel out of the way and immediately recognizes you. But before he can alert his men, you pull out your concealed pistol and shoot him dead. There’s a shootout as you and the armed rebels fire at the Germans while the unarmed refugees try to duck for cover. You manage to kill a few German soldiers, but they manage to kill a few of your guys as well. Things don’t look good as you’re outnumbered and they have you pinned down in a corner. They’re about to kill you.

Meanwhile, your husband returns to the rich man’s first class compartment, declaring he must save you, the woman he loves. He asks again who killed the Nazi officer, and the rich man tells him again that it was rebels. Your husband pulls his pistol and aims it at the shocked rich man. He corrects him, saying it wasn’t rebels, it was he who killed the Nazi officer. He holds the man at gunpoint, using him as a human shield as he walks through the train cars. His fist is clenched around the back of the rich man’s collar, his gun pointed at the back of the man’s head.

The Germans are suddenly frozen, unable to do anything out of fear your husband will kill this man who’s a very prominent figure and important to them and their regime. You stand behind your husband with your gun also pointed at the Germans. It’s been emptied from the previous shootout and you have no extra ammo, but they don’t know that. As you near the tunnel, your husband holds his tears at bay and turns his head to glance back at you. He tells you,

“Continue to go forward as I take a step back.”

He gives you one last smile and yells at the rebel soldiers to move forward as he releases his hostage. Once they enter the next train car, your husband points his gun at the coupler of the two train cars. Realizing what he’s doing, you run to the end of the train car, but your husband has already used his single bullet to shoot the connector between the two cars. It’s a perfect shot. The cars separate, with you in the car holding all the rebels and refugees, and your husband in the car holding all the German soldiers. You scream and watch your husband watching you from the doorway as the cars pull away from each other. The distance between you is a chasm between life and death. You cry for your husband as he falls victim to the gunshots of the German soldiers behind him. Everything is moving in slow motion as his body is riddled with bullets. As red seeps through your husband’s shirt, it also seeps into your black and white world. What had once been a blank canvas only moments before becomes painted in a way that threatens to haunt you. It’s the first color you see. It’s the red of wedding carnations, a pop of color in the gray. Love is a strong emotion that can cause pain. And red isn’t always love, it represents death. Loss. Everything wrong about the world.

He begins to slump to the ground, but still tries to hold on to the doorframe for as long as he can, his body acting as a shield that prevents the Germans from getting to you. As the train continues to separate from his car, you let out an anguished scream of his name despite not knowing it before. The train exits the tunnel and you crumble. While you’ve gotten away, your husband’s train car eventually reaches the end of the tunnel and slows to a complete stop. He’s covered in blood and bullet holes.

The blood doesn’t gush in a constant flow, but in time with the beating of his heart. At first it comes thick and strong, flowing through his fingers as they clasp his punctured flesh. The blood leaves the artery to which it once belonged in surges until it becomes a steady trickle, beat out by a slowing heart. He feels the blood move over his hand, the thick fluid no warmer or cooler than his own skin. After a few moments the blood is still leaving his rapidly paling flesh, but the pulses are slower, weaker. He looks to the sky as he finally falls and hits the ground, his blood still dripping between his fingers and oozing under his hand, staining his wedding ring.

It had all been so suicidal, this attempt at a rescue... but if he didn’t try, then who was he? Where was his hero heart? He could’ve died safe and warm many years from now, cozy in a bed and surrounded by his loved ones. Yet, even in those last moments, he was proud to have tried. Even though you aren’t around to hear him, he tells you that you were the woman he loved. He says goodbye. He dies.

You continue where your husband left off and step up as a new leader of the French Resistance. Your husband gave you a mission before he died, and you’re determined to see it through. As you travel from Marseilles, across the Mediterranean to Oran, and then across the rim of Africa, you continue the harrowing journey to Casablanca, all while training the rebels and teaching the refugees everything you know and more along the way. It’s imperative that they have all the skills and street smarts they’ll need. Upon arrival, everyone, including you, will need to survive on their own until they can obtain exit visas.

You warn that, even with exit visas, there are still ways that travelers can be hindered from leaving and held in Casablanca in spite of their legal rights. While Casablanca is neutral ground so long as it’s under the jurisdiction of Vichy and considered unoccupied France, there will still be German soldiers stationed there. And they will all be loyal to Hitler and his regime. You tell everyone to proceed with extreme caution and to not engage with the Germans or even the French police at all if it can be helped. The French police are led by Captain Renault, a corrupt official. So it’s safe to say everyone working in his administration is corrupt.

You reiterate to everyone that they cannot let the French police nor the Germans suspect anything. They could arrest any of you without proof and hold you on a petty charge for no reason at all other than it artificially makes their administration look more effective. If the Germans or gendarmes can’t find any reason to arrest or hold someone, they’ll just make something up and issue a false report if it serves their self-interest, so don’t be foolish enough to actually give them one. Don’t speak to them, don’t eat or drink with them, and especially don’t fight with them. No matter what the Nazis may say or do, don’t let them provoke you. You tell everyone that they must remain invisible while in Casablanca. You emphasize that you are all to keep to yourselves and your own families. Once you step foot in the desert, you are all to act as strangers to each other. Trust no one. This is for the safety of everyone. Everyone knows you still have your mission, but they know your getting intimately close to Captain Renault is a necessary risk you’re taking so that you may pave a better future for all of them and yourself. As their leader, they trust in you and believe in you to succeed.

When you finally make it, Casablanca is exactly what your husband said it would be. But hearing about a place and actually living there are two very different experiences, and it takes some getting used to. Corruption runs rampant within the police as innocent people, referred to as the usual suspects, and beautiful women get rounded up indiscriminately. The latter are extorted by Captain Renault for sexual favors in exchange for exit visas while the former are either falsely arrested and imprisoned or shot to death in broad daylight if they attempt to flee.

The corrupt officials often turn a blind eye to and even participate in underhanded or illicit activities such as gambling and dealings on the black market. More refugees wait in line outside the Palais de Justice, their upturned gazes following the flight of the plane to Lisbon. In their faces is revealed one hope they all have in common, and the plane is the symbol of that hope. This is where you must say goodbye and part ways with your comrades and co-conspirators, but just for now. Despite not knowing a word of the language mere moments ago, you’re inexplicably able to say in near perfect French,

“Those were the glory days. Each of us were a flame. We burned brightly for a short burst. We will ignite the embers. My French isn’t much better so my goodbye is short. Goodbye, my comrades. When our country is free once more, I’ll see you again.”

While scoping out Rick’s Café Américain, your eyes scan the place. As you blend in and converse with other customers and sit at a gambling table or at the bar, you track Captain Renault’s movements out of the corner of your eye, subtly watching him to learn more about his habits and personality. You learn that Signor Ugarte is dead and that the searching of his body yielded no results. If they didn’t recover the letters from his person, then he must’ve hid them away or entrusted them to someone. He wouldn’t just lose them or hand them off so carelessly. While operating undercover, you gather juicy and valuable intel to help the French Resistance. You utilize different methods and skills besides your expert eavesdropping and stealth.

You’re a master of setting bait, two methods of which are infallibly effective and always get bites. For women, you approach under the guise of sharing inconsequential but intriguing pieces of gossip over coffee or while out shopping. If there’s anything bored wives love to do, it’s talking and spreading rumors about others. For men, you use your womanly wiles to your advantage and it’s incredible how loose men’s lips become during pillow talk. To them, you’re just a pretty ornament, a decoration to sit next to them or hang on their arm. They always fall for it hook, line, and sinker. You may seem like little more than a lonely widow or a bed warmer but, unbeknownst to any of them, you have a memory like a steel trap. You’ve been sleuthing and assembling a dossier which you expertly hide in your room, gradually working your way up to Captain Renault himself.

The only problem is once you have his heart, you find it's broken. But not in the way you expect. Captain Renault has just discovered that his “girlfriend”, Yvonne, is having an affair. But he isn’t upset about it in the slightest. He tolerates it as he has grown tired of her and their relationship was wide open anyway. He never made any promises to her that he’d be monogamous. His appetite for beautiful women is so insatiable that he’d never settle for her or just any woman. But you’re not just any woman. You’ve become so much more to him than just another bed warmer or one night stand. Yes, sexual tension still runs high between you even if it’s far from the first time you’ve slept together. Adrenaline still courses through your veins and you both need to release this pent up energy somehow. And there’s no better, more pleasurable way than sex.

Before you know it, you’re several months into a stable, healthy relationship with Captain Renault. You didn’t intend to lose sight of your mission, you really didn’t. But it’s like you fell slowly then suddenly all at once. You didn’t have time to catch yourself as you landed in his bed, your fall cushioned by his soft mattress and firm body. He insists you call him Louis now, though he may admit with a playful quality to his voice that he likes it when call him Captain in the bedroom. You’ve succeeded in your mission and have somehow tricked him into signing multiple exit visas.

Unbeknownst to you, Louis has always been aware of what you’ve been trying to do and has only let you think you’re manipulating him because what you’re doing lines up with his own motives, though in a rather zigzagged way. The truth is, Major Strasser has a dossier on you and what you did in the past, but you’ve refused to give him any of the names of your accomplices or the people who were on board the train with you. You thought ahead and trained your fellow rebels on using fake identities, which included new names and backgrounds, until they had it all memorized. But it wasn’t enough for them to just know it backwards and forwards from memory. You made your training most effective by conducting mock interrogations and acted the role of a Nazi, grilling them with questions about anything and everything. Their father’s name, their mother’s occupation, where and when were they born, etc. until they could answer with conviction and not break under duress. You made sure they got everything right, even down to the proper pronunciation of places or names. There had to be no room left for doubt.

Without your cooperation, Strasser had nothing. No matter how long he persisted, he wouldn’t get answers out of you by asking you questions directly, so he ordered Captain Renault to seduce and get information out of you. Louis has familiarized himself with your record, but he holds no love for the Nazis and never goes all that far out of his way to help them out. In fact, he’s been quietly sabotaging Strasser’s agenda despite the man being his superior. He agrees to do whatever will help maintain his cushy position and is fine with his normally extremely controversial behavior of opportunism, but only out of self-interest. He’s been obliging you and filling out the exit visas because not only does allowing the French rebels and refugees to board the plane to Lisbon and escape to America further sabotage Strasser’s agenda by putting a major dent in the Nazis’ plan of recapturing them and sending them to concentration camps to be tortured and executed, he’s fallen in love with you too.

White is the color of neutrality. No matter how you sliced it, Captain Louis Renault didn’t support either side in the war more or less than the other. He was an opportunist who supported whichever side benefitted him the most, susceptible to flipping at any given time. He held no conviction. He often blew with the wind, and the prevailing wind happened to be from Vichy. So long as he was Prefect of Police, any violation of neutrality would reflect on him. He deliberately tried to stay out of the conflict. Until he met you.

You and Louis always suspected that there was some ulterior motive behind why the two of you got together but, even so, neither of you are entirely sure of what the other knows. If there’s one thing you’re both good at, it’s keeping secrets. But during one of your private dinner dates at his apartment, he throws out his bottle of Vichy water and kicks the waste basket to the side. He opens a bottle of Veuve Cliquot ‘26, a good French wine, instead. It’s such a subtle change that you don’t notice it right away but, as you watch him pour you a glass, Louis’ uniform isn’t white. It’s ivory.

After another blissful night spent together that culminates with you making love, you trace patterns on Louis’ skin as you pose a hypothetical about just packing up everything you own and running away together. You’re not sure where you’d go, but as long as you and Louis were together, you were sure you could figure it out as you went along. You just want to get in the car and drive, get as far away from Casablanca as your car will take you. You want to travel, see the world outside of this desert. Louis tells you that your question of leaving doesn’t have to be a hypothetical. He can be your ticket to get out of here. You can start anew somewhere else, together. There’s a Free French garrison over in Brazzaville and he may be induced to secure a passage. For a price, he adds, as he raises his eyebrows and smiles at you suggestively, his brown eyes glinting with mischief. He really is insatiable- wait.

Brown. Not dark gray. Brown. Yes, you had read his eyes were brown in the report your late husband gave you, but actually seeing the change occur in his eyes in real time and so up close is different. The dark gray melts away and swirls around in his irises, making room for this new color. It’s a very beautiful color, very rich in tone and full of earthiness. As you stare into his brown eyes, you think about how they are a million hues of orange, red, yellow, and black all mixed wonderfully together to create this unique shade. As always in nature, it’s so very many hues you feel and sense so much more strongly without words.

You wonder what the word "brown" even means. Is it the forest and the autumnal leaves? The soil in summer and after the rains? His eyes remind you of the brown of earth, of the nurturing soils, and of the textured skin of the trees that grow with the variation of finger prints. In his brown eyes is the warmth of an everlasting hearth, as if they’re the wood that could burn with golden flame yet be forever perfectly whole. They’re hues of comforting childhood memories, as sweet as chocolate and as sturdy as the oak of a tree. It’s the sort of brown that brings your thoughts to comfort, yet have the bright flecks of rosy hope. But how can you ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word, one metaphor, when the colors invite you to marvel in their simplicity. In those earthy hues is his soul, not in the way of those cheesy romance novels, so obsessed with lust, but with the kind of beauty that expands a moment into a personal eternity, a heaven you wish to be a part of.

His hair is a much lighter shade of brown, streaked with strands of silver. You comb your fingers through it and tug on it, as if warning him to behave. You’re quick to wipe that cocky smirk off his face as you kiss him with renewed fervor. You climb on top of him and he, at first, places his hands on your breasts, massaging and squeezing them. But you slap his hands away and tell him no. This time you’re in control, so you tell Louis to be good and not to move his hands from where you put them. You’re going to drive him crazy, then stop, then do it all over again until he begs you to finish this. Even then, you won't. You’re just going to do every naughty thing to him you can think of until your mind and body explode.

You move his hands down to your hips, using them to steady yourself as you place your hands on his chest and rock back and forth, slowly at first and then gradually picking up speed. He’s going to give you a ride in his car tomorrow, but tonight he’s going to give you a very different kind of ride. You let the colors sit in your intuition and bring that surging joy only the simple pleasures of flesh, of life, can bring so fully. As you go faster and he starts to lose his composure, his hands slip down from your hips as he smacks your thighs and your butt. But you’re both too tightly wound with pleasure to notice. It keeps building, and building, and building, until you can’t hold it in anymore. The coil is about to snap at any moment. And when it does, it’ll explode and you’ll see patterns of colors. As if your eyes are looking through the lens of a kaleidoscope.

When Louis wakes up the next morning, the bed is cold. Once the grogginess from last night’s sleep has worn off and he wipes the sleep dust from underneath his eyes, he notices that the apartment is empty, completely bare and perfectly neat - besides the bed, of course. It’s as if you’d never lived here at all. You’re not here either. Where are you? Did he misunderstand? He thought he was going to drive you out of Casablanca and go to Brazzaville with you. Did you change your mind? If you don’t want to go to Brazzaville, that’s okay with him. He’d go anywhere with you. Even if it was just you and him and the open road, and you had no destination in mind, he’d be happy because he’d be spending his life with you. He has a very important question he wants to ask you, but you’re not anywhere to be found and you left no note. He quickly gets dressed and gets back in his car. He drives around the city looking for you, even stopping to ask passerby if they’ve seen you.

When he does find you, you’re sitting alone on a bench. You look to be deep in thought. You apologize to Louis for worrying him and explain that you had to get away to think. You were biding your time so he didn’t get suspicious. But in doing so, you’ve not only stolen his heart, which is far more valuable to you now than money or information, you’ve run away with it too. While you know what you’ve been doing is unselfish and for a good cause, you regret your actions. You feel dirty for manipulating and using Louis the way you have been because you truly love him. He’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, a rarity in the desert of Casablanca. Hardly anything grows here so, when he saw them in the market while searching for you, he thought you’d like them and bought them for you. It might even be the first time that he’s ever actually bought anything, come to think of it. The flowers are in full bloom and are a variety of colors. Yellow, purple, green, orange, and blue. They’re so beautiful. It’s truly the most beautiful bouquet you’ve ever seen. You love them but, as much as you want to, you can’t accept them.

“My dear, there's something I want to ask you. The sooner I do it, the better.”

“Louis, before you say anything, I... I can't see you anymore.”

“You're joking.”

“I was never more serious.”

“Why? My dear, I thought you cared. I thought you loved me.”

“I do. Well, that is, I like you as a friend. I realized today it would be unfair, unkind to raise false hopes on your part, especially since I always intend to remain true to my husband's memory. And then, too, we might be giving scandal to others with our close association.”

“What are you talking about? What scandal? My darling, I came here to ask you...”

You know exactly what he came here to ask you, which makes this all the more painful. You need to stop him before he completes his train of thought, lest your resolve breaks entirely and you burst into tears in front of him. You can’t lose your nerve and give into your heart now. It should’ve never gotten this far in the first place. Louis looks at you as if you’ve become a completely different person than the one he’s known all this time. He’s so lost and confused by your strange and unusual behavior. What’s gotten into you? You know how this must look to him. He’s staring at you as if you’re talking utter nonsense.

“Captain, I think you better go now. I would rather be alone.”

“You can't mean that.”

“I do. Goodbye, Captain Renault.”

If he won’t leave, you’ll leave instead. Not just for the sake of your former comrades and yourself, but for his as well. You want to stay here with him, you really do, but you don’t think you can. You want so badly to tell him the truth, but there’s so many reasons why you just can’t. How would you even begin to explain that you don’t belong here and are from the future, or that this may all just be a lucid dream you’ll be waking up from soon? That none of this is real and is just a figment of your imagination, including him. That the line between illusion and dream and truth and reality has become so blurred that you’re not sure what to believe anymore. That you’re scared more than anything of whatever the answer will be. This black and white dream is quickly transforming itself into a nightmare and you’re afraid it may only get worse if you don’t try to get out. You need to wake up or escape, and you need to do it now.

But Louis is in too deep by this point, just like you are. There’s no going back now, and he won’t let you get away that easily.

In your desperation to escape and his desperation to keep you by his side, you hold each other at gunpoint and threaten to shoot. You hesitate. Louis hesitates. You stand there in a deadlock, neither of you daring to move a muscle. You both notice that neither of you actually have your finger on the trigger. You and Louis step closer together until you’re right in front of the other’s gun. Your guns are pressed point blank up against each other’s chests. As if to say,

"All right, I'll make it easier for you. Go ahead and shoot. You'll be doing me a favor."

But you both know that the other is really saying,

"If you're the person I know and love, you won't shoot me. But if you will, then I have no desire to live."

You don’t shoot. Neither does Louis. Your intentions, or lack thereof in this case, are revealed. Neither of you can pull the trigger, so you slowly lower and put away your guns. Louis questions you about your past, including your secret marriage. You never told him you were married, nor that you were widowed less than a year ago. You never even mentioned your husband’s name to him before a few moments ago when you tried to end things. He never saw a ring because you wore it on a chain around your neck and always kept it hidden under your clothes, or you took it off and hid it whenever you were making love or otherwise nude.

“Why weren’t you honest with me? Why did you keep your marriage a secret?”

“It wasn’t my secret. He wanted it that way. Not even our closest friends knew about our marriage. That was his way of protecting me. I knew so much about his work. If the Gestapo found out I was his wife it would be dangerous for me and for those working with us.”

“You were part of his work, the thing that kept him going. In a way, you’re still a part of his work and carrying on even after his death.”

You were supposed to be finding your way back home...but in your heart, you feel you’re already there. You step forwards and the two of you share a kiss. But suddenly and inexplicably, you start to fade away, much to your and Louis’ horror. Louis tries to grab your hand, but his passes right through yours. He calls out your name frantically, trying to hold onto you. But he can’t grab you because you’re becoming transparent, intangible, no longer there.

“Louis… I feel so strange. What’s happening to me? Louis…help me…Louis…Louis!” Your voice drifts away like an echo, becoming quieter and quieter until it disappears entirely, much like your body does. Until Louis is left standing alone.

“No! Don’t go! Please, don’t go... I love you.” His anguished declaration of love comes too late. You’re gone.

You’re not sure how, when, or why, but you find yourself back on the train. You watch as it slowly turns back into a bus. The bus you fell asleep on. The black and white world slowly melts away like an oil painting as pops of color bleed through before taking over completely once again. The people around you change as the dresses and suits become t-shirts and jeans, newspapers and books become phones and tablets, and some passengers’ hair turns into bright, abnormal colors, their once clear skin now decorated with tattoos and facial piercings. It’s present day again and everyone you knew in Casablanca is gone. When you check the time on your phone, only about twenty minutes have passed. It was all a dream? But it felt so real. You’re startled by the sound of your ringtone. You clumsily reach for your phone, fumbling and nearly dropping it on the ground in your attempts to hit the answer button.

It’s your family calling to ask where you are and if you’re still planning on attending like you promised. It’s your cousin’s wedding and they wanted you to be there so badly that they’ve reminded you of the date and time of their special day more than once. While your family has been there since the morning to help set up the venue, the wedding isn’t until the evening. You have plenty of time to prepare and get ready since you’re not actually in the wedding and are just attending as a guest. You assure your family on the other end of the line that you’ll be there and won’t miss it for the world, you just have to run some errands and pick up a few things first.

While you’re out running errands and getting ready for your cousin’s big day, you can’t stop thinking about your dream. What you just experienced felt lIke an entire lifetime passed, but it had only been less than an hour. That’s messing with your brain so badly that you still can’t wrap your head around it. The transition between realities was so smooth and so seamless that you almost didn’t notice you had already woken up.

It was a beautiful ceremony. At the wedding reception you’re introduced to a handsome gentleman, a dear friend and work colleague of your uncle. They’ve been discussing a few investment opportunities, but they just coincidentally ran into each other and got to talking, so your uncle invited him to attend the wedding. He’s also taken the liberty of inviting him to stay for dinner. There’s plenty of food and alcohol to go around, so your cousin and their new spouse can spare an extra placement. But you’re taken aback because this man is the spitting image of Captain Louis Renault. And, in his hands, he’s holding the same bouquet of wildflowers. Except now they’re dried, their beauty permanently preserved. They’ll never wilt and die. Much like his love for you. He smiles at you and gives you the bouquet before he kisses your hand.

“I’m very happy to... meet you.”

Your uncle walks away, dragging the children away from the wedding cake and gifts. He shoos them out of the ballroom despite their protests. All of the other wedding guests surrounding you melt away until it’s just the two of you in the world. You and Louis’ doppelgänger join hands. You smile up at him, admiring how he looks just as handsome in color as he did in black and white, if not more so. Even if he goes by a different name here and has a different occupation, you recognize him as truly being Captain Louis Renault. Your Louis. You remember him and he remembers you.

“Are you surprised that I caught you trying to leave me? Or are you pleased to see me? I wouldn’t let you leave without me, my dear.”

You set down the bouquet on one of the tables. You want to enjoy this moment, but there’s one question still on your mind. “Whatever happened to those letters of transit that I gave to Signor Ugarte?”

He smiles at you and fills in the blanks, telling you everything that happened after you disappeared. “Do you remember my American friend, Rick Blaine? Well, it turned out that Ugarte handed the letters of transit off to Rick a matter of minutes before he was arrested and killed. And right in the middle of his saloon was Sam's piano. He hid the letters of transit there and, despite the thorough search the Germans conducted, they never found them. That was lucky. You see, Rick was in love with a woman named Ilsa Lund, but could see quite well how she adored her husband, Victor Laszlo, a man wanted for escaping from a concentration camp. As Rick had the letters of transit, he was ultimately the only one who could make the decision. All of the above considered, he could abandon Victor, take Ilsa away, and everyone would get something they want, at the sacrifice of Victor's life and his fight against the Nazis. His gun was pointed straight at my heart, and I knew he wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if he had to.”

He pauses while relaying his story because he can see in your eyes that you’re afraid. Not of anything, but afraid for him. As if expecting to find a bullet hole, bleeding wound, or a scar somewhere underneath his clothing. It’s subtle, but he’s perceptive enough to notice the way your eyes flicker down, the way your hands rest over his chest and clutch his shirt just a little bit tighter before you release your grip and smooth out the wrinkles you created. He assuages your fears with a quick kiss and grabs both of your hands in his own, holding them to his chest as he kisses them too. “Do not fret, my love. I was unharmed. May I continue?”

You nod and let out a breath, a small sigh of relief you weren’t aware you were even holding in.

“He forced me to countersign the letters of transit. Somehow, Strasser intercepted the phone call I made to the airport and learned of their plans. He arrived at the airport just as the plane door closed and the aircraft started down the runway, with Ilsa and Victor Laszlo on board. Also lucky. There were quite a bit of close calls like that throughout the whole ordeal. And even afterwards, there was quite a bit of tension up until the last minute about whether the plane would be allowed to leave Casablanca or not. Rick decided to shoot Major Strasser and run off to join the Free French, leaving Victor and Ilsa to escape together and carry on the fight. Before the plane left, Strasser was dead and I was sympathetic. The realization that I wasn’t truly master of my fate, at least as long as the Nazis had anything to say about it, might have been what motivated my sudden change of heart. But all I could think about, as Rick and I walked off into the fog and an uncertain future, was you, my darling. I wanted so terribly to get back home, to get back to you. The fog slowly dissipated and Rick was gone, but I just kept walking forward. The next thing I knew, I woke up at home on my couch, my alarm clock telling me I had to get ready for work. I thought about you all day. I wondered where you disappeared to, were you okay, were you thinking of me, did you even remember me at all, were you even real? And then, after my shift was over, I ran into a work colleague. He invited me to his child’s wedding and, well, here I am. Here we are. I had no idea he was your uncle until he introduced us. But when I saw you, it was like… like everything fell perfectly into place.” He holds out his hand to you. “May I have this dance, my darling?”

“I couldn’t say no… Captain.” You smirk at him, fully aware of the effect you have on him when you call him that. You swear he nearly growls at you as he leads you to a free space on the dance floor. He warns you that he knows exactly what you’re doing and that, if you don’t behave, he may have to sequester the both of you in an empty coat closet or dressing room somewhere. You slow dance to the romantic music that’s playing. You rest your head on his chest and close your eyes as you slowly sway and spin. When he notices you’re staring up at him, he turns his head to look at you and kisses your forehead.

“I'm yours, aren't I?”

“If it isn't too good to be true.”

You remove your head from his chest to stand up straight and look into his eyes properly. You place your arms around his neck. “Oh. Of course, if you- if you need to be convinced, if you want everything signed and sealed, we could... Don't you think we could be married?”

“At once. The first day we can. Is there any objection?”

“Well, don't you think we really ought to get to know each other all over again?” You step back and hold out your hand for him to shake. “How do you do, Mr. Renault? Or do you go by a different name here?”

You laugh together as you play along and shake hands. Maybe soulmates is too corny of a word to describe the two of you, but you can’t think of a better one. Him knowing your uncle, your uncle running into him in the street and inviting him to your cousin’s wedding that they insisted you also attend, seeing him here, finding him again… It all feels like a series of coincidences have conveniently aligned perfectly to get you both here. Maybe your souls are entwined as closely as your bodies were. God, thinking about it makes your face heat up in embarrassment. But you know now that, no matter where you go, even if you’re worlds apart, you’ll always find your way back to each other.

[fanfic-she-wrote]

With all of the Renault content lately, I’ve been feeling so spoiled but would it be a bother to ask for more? If you’re up for it, could I request a blurb with 💪🐾 and 💕? Thanks! 😊

Just Married

Captain Renault x reader

Renault finally ties the knot and marries reader. A bit spicey. Nothing graphic though. No swears. Casablanca was also released 80 years ago today! Hope you like it!

💪 Bridal Carry

🐾 Pet names

💕 Kisses

From this prompt list

The sounds of tin cans could be heard dragging behind the car that brought you and Renault to your hotel. You had just been married and were on your way to your honeymoon.

It had been a couple years since the war had ended and Louis found himself in America along with Rick, where he met you. Upon coming to America he thought he would have a bit of fun being the French playboy, but the minute he saw you he knew those days were over. You were the one. Also, you were Rick’s sister/brother and if Louis broke your heart he would have to answer to him which was not something he wanted to do.

You and Renault ran out of the car towards your door laughing all the way. You had put your hand on the doorknob when he suddenly stopped you. “Wait a minute.”

“What?” You asked turning to face him.

“It’s a tradition to carry someone you love over the threshold and I’m not about to break it now.” With that, he picked you up and held you in his arms. “There. Now open the door my sweet!” He exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement any further. He just couldn’t wait to finally get some time alone with you.

As told you twisted the knob and opened the door for him. He was surprisingly strong and carried you like he would carry a leaf. Carefully he placed you down and shut the door, locking it behind him. You barely had a chance to compose yourself before you found his lips pressed against your’s pushing you towards the bed.

“I’ve waited so long for this.” He breathed.

“Whoa, slow down hot stuff…” You said, giving him a slight push. “Let me get ready first.”

He gave you a quick look up and down. “You look fine to me.” He went to kiss you again, but you stopped him.

“I’ll only be a moment.” You assured him with a wink disappearing into the bathroom.

He sat on the bed and waited. Throughout the whole time you dated he did his best to control himself. You were different from anyone else he had been with, which were mostly one night stands. It was torture, but it was worth it. You were worth it.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom. His jaw dropped at how unbelievably sexy you were. Not that you weren’t always sexy. In fact, he found himself feeling slightly nervous, why he didn’t know. Which was odd for him. Maybe it was a newly wed thing to be nervous?

“I don’t think I have to ask to know what you think.” You remarked sitting on his lap.

“I think…I’m lucky to have someone like you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He admitted. You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair, making him melt. You hadn’t expected him to say that. You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

“I love you, Louis.”

“I love you too.”

[free-for-all-fics]

Captain Louis Renault Prompt! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 🃏🤍🎰

You’re forced to go with your husband to Rick’s Café Américain, what he claims is a nice upscale restaurant to treat you to a romantic dinner date. You should’ve known it’s actually an expensive and chic nightclub where illicit activity such as gambling, extortion, and shady and underhanded dealings on the black market occur. It definitely possesses an air of sophistication and intrigue, you can at least say that. You should’ve known that your husband would lie to you. You wish you could say you still love him, but your marriage is lacking in more than just intimacy. Your honeymoon phase ended long before you went on your actual honeymoon. The unbridled passion and spontaneity your love once had is long gone and there’s just no spark anymore. It dimmed until it blinked out of existence and your husband hasn’t made much of an effort, if any, to reignite it. The connection you may have once had has been severed and you feel like you’re alone rather than in a partnership.

You work so hard and for such long hours that you often retire to bed early and are asleep by the time your husband comes home most nights, if he comes home at all. He’s a womanizing drunkard with a gambling addiction and often makes high risk bets and wagers to impress the beautiful ladies and wealthy gentlemen around the table, no matter how dangerous they are. He’s a real gambler who makes bets on anything. You should’ve known that that would include you sooner or later. Captain Louis Renault is playing a table stakes game with him and he can tell immediately that this young man is not only a compulsive gambler, but a degenerate one. Though your husband swears to you and anyone willing to listen that he’s not a degenerate, he’s a professional who’s just having a streak of bad luck. You’ve heard it all many, many times, and you’re sick of the excuses.

Clouds of smoke swirl around the gambling room. Captain Renault looks down at his cards while glancing at your husband out of the corner of his eye. Your husband’s lips twitch, a tiny grimace before he catches himself and tries to mimic the players around him and display an expressionless mask of impassivity. But it’s already too late. That brief slip, that little tell, is all Louis needs. While he’s an exceptionally talented and well-practiced liar, your husband isn’t. No matter how hard he tries, the man is gullible and naive, and can’t maintain a convincing poker face to save his life. Your husband’s also just a second-rate card player anyway. Despite his delusions about his ability and skill level, the reality is that he’s just not a very good player. Louis knows that he could win even without fixing the game so, in a rare instance, he decides he doesn’t need to cheat this time around because winning fairly will be much more satisfying.

He watches your husband’s eyes flit up and to the left, trying to subtly glance at you while you’re sitting alone at the bar. You’re engaged in polite conversation with Sacha, but you’re bored and miserable. You wish you were anywhere but here. He follows your husband’s eyes and, once he spots you, he takes notice of what’s happening and has an epiphany. Ah, yes. The heart is the most vulnerable spot for most men. Louis is not most men, though. Instead he can employ alternative, more inconspicuous methods to win without cheating. It will require much more work on his part, but the payoff will be all the more satisfying when he inevitably comes out on top. The game he plays with your husband is a long con, but it’ll be absolutely worth it in the end. You’ll see.

Unbeknownst to either you or your husband, the real game has just begun. Captain Renault uses people to create his own entertainment sometimes and your husband just so happens to be the perfect target. He starts some playful banter with your husband, mentioning you vaguely and asking questions about you to either distract him or get him worked up in order to subtly goad him into making a mistake, masking it as just some casual back and forth between hands. He knows your husband’s insecure and any slight towards his pride or masculinity will be his downfall. He retrieves a fresh cigarette from a small box in his uniform’s breast pocket, chain-lighting it with his old one. He takes a drag and tilts his head, blowing the smoke in your husband’s face. It’s definitely a total accident and in no way an intentional display of power or dominance. If your husband is brave enough to accuse him, the Prefect of Police, of doing it on purpose, Captain Renault has believable deniability. But your husband is a coward, so he says nothing. Even if he wants to, he can’t speak for a few moments because he’s coughing up a storm, trying to clear his throat and wave the smoke away with the hand that’s not holding his cards. The brandy only burns his throat and does nothing to soothe it as he gulps it down to steady his nerves.

Hours pass. All of the other players have folded and left the game, either going to the cashier to cash out and collect their winnings or to the bar to get a much needed drink to numb the sting of losing their money. One of the previous players was practically a whale, and Captain Renault and your husband took him for a lot of money. He was the last person to leave the table, wishing them both a goodnight. Now it’s just down to the two of them. Your husband smiles exuberantly after the man has gone, his eyes lighting up. He thinks he’s just so lucky and so skilled, that his bad streak has finally ended, totally unaware Captain Renault has been playing him this entire time. Louis offhandedly corrects your husband and tells him that he took most of it, since he’s older and much more experienced in the game. Unbeknownst to your husband, he’s not just referring to poker. As if it’s an afterthought, he pats your husband on the shoulder consolingly and tells him he didn’t do too badly either. Your husband scoffs, convinced it was him that won that money. He wants to go again, but Louis feigns wanting to put a rain check on it and scoots his chair back from the table, making as if he’s getting up to leave. Your husband stops him, just like Louis knew he would.

“What's the matter, Captain? Are you scared?”

Louis smirks as he sits back down and pulls a fresh cigarette from his pocket. He tells Leon, the dealer, “Open up a fresh pack, would you?”

More hours pass. You’re not sure exactly how many, but it’s either very late or very early, depending on how you look at it. Either way, you’ve had more than enough of Rick’s for tonight. You tell your husband in no uncertain terms that you’re going home and there’s nothing he can say or do to convince you to stay another minute. You’re calling a taxi and it’s up to him if he chooses to leave with you or not. He promises he’s almost done and will be home shortly, but the look in your eyes conveys that you don’t believe him. When he’d lie to you and neglect you like this, you’d usually be angry, disappointed, or sad. Usually it was a combination of all three. But you’re too tired to care. Not just physically due to him dragging you here on false promises and making you stay for hours and hours, but mentally and emotionally as well. Your husband doesn’t see any of it since he barely looks at you, too immersed in the game to even spare you a glance. He doesn’t even kiss you or tell you he loves you. But Louis knows a thing or two about women, and he can see every layer of your suffering that you’ve endured while married to this loser. The hurt, the exhaustion, the loneliness, all of it. He knows that you know your husband is lying, since you don’t even bother to wait up for him. You deserve better. So much better.

“So I have to win this hand to stay in, huh?”

“Uh, I guess you do.”

He wasn’t going to cheat. He really wasn’t, but seeing you so neglected and miserable has now made Louis mad at your husband and he’s changed his mind. The boy has been taking you for granted and needs to be taught a lesson. Rick would probably appreciate that he doesn’t have to resort to violence to get his point across. He gets up to get another glass of brandy, discreetly placing an ice cube under an empty glass. When the ice melts, causing the glass to conveniently fall and make a loud noise as it shatters, it distracts your husband as he looks over his shoulder. Louis gives Leon a look and the dealer knows what he wants him to do. He discreetly reshuffles the cards in the deck to be in Louis’ favor while your husband isn’t paying attention. To avoid raising suspicion, he places a nice low bet to make his opponent more comfortable and give him a false sense of security. Your husband discards one of his cards, giving it back to Leon face down. Leon deals your husband a new card. Louis discards two cards and Leon deals him two new cards. Your husband gives Louis a look that could almost be considered smug as he moves his cards around.

“That good, huh? Oh, wow. That good.”

“That good. I can't lose.”

That’s it. Louis has him. “Well, it's a shame you got nothing to bet with. What's the bet, kid?”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Your husband takes out your meager but hard earned savings. Unbeknownst to you, he stole it out from under you, convinced you’d never notice because he’d win it all back and a little extra. “The bet, Captain Renault, is this. I’m all in,” he states confidently as he slides all of his chips into the pot. Louis sees him, sliding the equal value of chips into the pot.

Your husband puts down his cards, confident he’ll win this showdown. Too confident. “You should trust me when I tell you things. I told you I couldn't lose. Four kings!”

“That's pretty. Not as pretty as this.” Louis lays down his cards, fanning them out on the table. “Straight flush.”

“No.” Your husband’s face immediately falls as he feels a pit form in his stomach.

“Yes.” Louis nods with a smile.

“That's impossible.” He tries to grab for his - your money, but Leon stops him by grabbing his wrist.

“His pot.” Leon’s voice is stern, as if warning your husband not to start a scene here. Rick doesn’t like disturbances in his place. This isn’t always an honest place, but Rick has made an arrangement with Captain Renault. He’d turn a blind eye to the fixed games and pay Louis in bribes and, in exchange, Louis and his administration would permit his establishment to remain open. This is still unoccupied France and any violation of neutrality, including any physical altercations in public, would reflect on Captain Renault. Your husband has two options: He can either keep a cool head or get out.

“That’s my pot.” Louis cleans him out and gets up from the table to cash in his chips at the cashier window, but your husband won’t quit. He wants to keep playing, claiming he wants a chance to win back what he lost. He needs the money for two exit visas, or at least one for you. If there was only an exit visa for one of you, he’d want you to take it even if it meant he’d have to stay behind and remain in Casablanca. It all sounds very selfless, very noble, but Captain Renault knows that’s not exactly the truth behind his motives. Meanwhile, when you get back to your place, you immediately fall asleep when your head hits the pillow, blissfully unaware of what your husband has done. The ramifications of his actions will come back to bite you, but you don’t know it yet.

Your husband offers to play roulette with Louis the next night as a best two out of three, an all or nothing gamble. But he's got no collateral of monetary value, and Louis doesn’t trust him for an I.O.U., so he says he'll put up you, his wife, against the money he lost. The sexual favors of his wife as collateral on a roulette game? Is that a serious offer? Louis takes him up on it after your husband affirms it’s indeed a serious offer and he won’t back out if he loses. Even if he loses, he swears he’ll make good on his bet and hold up his end of the bargain. Captain Renault has been with many beautiful young women in his lifetime, having gone through them faster than cigarettes. While acting as Prefect of Police in Casablanca, he’s embraced the corruption and vice that comes with his police uniform, rounding up twice the number of usual suspects just to impress his superiors, taking winnings from fixed games, and exchanging exit visas for sexual favors, whether the women are married or not. You’re very attractive and he’d even go so far as to say you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in Casablanca.

You’re clearly suffering from a severe lack of love and intimacy in your marriage. Louis, who is usually selfish and acts out of self-interest, caring only about chasing his own pleasure and personal gain, has a sudden change of heart when it comes to you. You’ve probably gotten more than enough of that self-serving behavior from your husband. When he wins again, which he knows he inevitably will, he’s going to make the time you spend together all about you. He’s going to focus only on what you want. He’s determined to be the best intimate partner you’ve ever had and provide both you and himself with mutual sexual gratification. Going beyond just physical pleasure, his motivations are intimately connected to his desire to greatly improve your mental and emotional well-being.

The next night, your husband is gambling against Captain Renault again, this time trying his luck at the roulette table. You believe he’s trying to win enough for your exit visas, unaware that he’s lost everything. Well, of course, he's losing. He’s looking tense as he glances up at Captain Renault, then down at the chips in his hand. He places his chips on eighteen. Twenty-two, black, twenty-two. A winner. Emil, the croupier, pushes a pile of chips toward Louis. Louis leans back in his chair and purses his lips and clicks his tongue at your husband as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Oh, that’s too bad. Looks like Lady Luck isn’t treating you very well.”

You take notice of what’s happening from your vantage point at a nearby table. You get up to stand behind your husband with your hand on his shoulder as you follow the game’s proceedings, worried. You wish he’d stop, but he doesn’t. The wheel stops spinning. Twenty-two, black, twenty-two. A winner. He has only three chips left and seems bewildered. Louis glances around the rest of the men and women placing their bets with a mixture of stoicism and amusement, but his gaze is locked on you throughout the game. You deserve better than your pathetic husband, and he wants to show you real love, real pleasure. You married such a boy. In many ways you’re so much older than he is. Louis, on the other hand, wants to show you everything a real man can give you.

Emil pushes an additional pile of chips towards Captain Renault but, in a surprise twist, he reaches for the chips he had previously placed on twenty-two and moves them all to eighteen. He gets into your husband’s head and manipulates him into trying his luck on twenty-two. After all, it’s been extremely lucky so far. Just look at how much he has won from it! Your husband hesitates. He withdraws his hands from the table, as if he’s going to walk away now, but then he pauses and decides against it. He puts his last remaining chips on twenty-two. Louis and Emil make eye contact. The croupier understands what the captain wants him to do, lest he suddenly find a reason to close down Rick’s establishment.

Emil spins the wheel. You follow the proceedings, sick with nerves and dread. Nobody speaks while the wheel spins. It stops. Eighteen, red, eighteen. A winner. Naturally, Captain Renault beats him again since, unbeknownst to you, your husband, or anyone else playing roulette, it’s a fixed game. But hey, a bet’s a bet. Your husband goes white as a sheet and begins to sweat as Louis chuckles, the low sound making the other men straighten in their chairs. He gets up from the table to cash in his chips, but he’s most excited to cash you in. Your husband stands up so quickly and with so much force that his chair falls over with a loud thud. He runs over to Captain Renault, falling to his knees. "Captain Renault, please don't take her. I beg you, please don’t! I'll get the money and I’ll pay you for our exit visas, I swear I will."

Louis looks down with disinterest, patting the pathetic man on the shoulder similar to how he did before, in mock consolation. Your husband can’t make eye contact, so Louis leans down to whisper in his ear so nobody else can hear except you. He wants not only your husband to hear every word of what he has to say, but you as well. "You shouldn't have offered up that sweet little wife of yours in the first place. Usually I’d commend a man for having less scruples than I but, in this rare instance, I can’t bring myself to. Flawed human beings as we are, we all have our vices. Some of those vices are harder to control or take in moderation, and we tend to overindulge. For you, it’s gambling. For me, it’s beautiful young women such as your wife. I may be just a poor official, but I know a thing or two about women and you don’t deserve your wife, dear boy. That’s what you are - a boy. You may possess the body of a man, but your brain and your heart are still that of an immature and frightened little child who can’t look beyond his own nose to see the world around him or those he’s hurt. You still have a lot of growing up to do, but don't you dare think for one moment I will let you continue to rob this beautiful young woman of a pleasurable marriage bed or the chance to, God willing, bear her own children, if she so wishes. I don’t care so much about the money, but I’m going to do my duty to rectify your mistakes and show your wife the love and intimacy you’ve neglected to give her for years.” Once he’s done giving his little speech, he stands up straight and smooths out the wrinkles in his uniform. "Ladies, gentlemen, it's been fun, but I have a date," he announces, standing up and holding out his arm to you.

Words cannot describe the plethora of volatile emotions you’re going through. You’re so angry and disappointed in your husband that he’d practically sell you. Your husband tries to implore you to forgive him, but you explain that, while you once loved him, the years of hurt and neglect have killed that love. You loved him but you couldn't let him know it. He’s so brutal to those who love him. You, believing your husband has never loved you and will jump at the chance to betray and hurt you again, become apathetic and indifferent to his declarations to the contrary. His words and entreaties, even in this moment of desperation, feel like more empty promises and they do nothing to sway or move you. You’ve given him so many chances, far too many. You’re done waiting for him to treat you as you deserve to be treated and to see your worth.

There’s an old saying, “never gamble more than you can afford to lose”. Your husband didn’t take that advice when he should’ve. Tired of it all, you walk out of your marriage. You trade your engagement and wedding rings to Captain Renault to pay for your exit visa, but tell him that you now want to sleep with him out of spite against your now ex-husband. Your husband is dead to you. Filing for and finalizing your divorce is just a legal formality you’ll deal with later. Stepping around the sniveling man, you leave together and don’t look back. Louis picks up his coat and tosses it over your shoulders like a gentleman as you stroll out the saloon, arm in arm. He opens the passenger door of his car for you and drives you to his place. Your ex-husband tries to run after you but you just tell Louis to speed up and leave him in the dust, watching as he gets smaller and smaller until he gives up on running and collapses to his knees in the middle of the road. Louis can smell the traces of your French perfume and it takes so much self-control not to just pull over and take you in the backseat.

When you’re finally alone in his apartment, he closes the door behind him. You open your mouth to speak, but Louis places his finger on your lips. "Let’s be clear, my dear. Despite the bets that were made, you don’t belong to me. What transpired five minutes ago may have given you the impression that I’m cut from the same cloth as your ex-husband. I’ll admit that, in many ways, I’m no better than him. I’m not a virgin nor a saint, and my intentions aren’t exactly pure or lacking ulterior motives. I want more than anything to prove to you that you’re not an object to be possessed and discarded, and I want to do it the best way I know how. I want you to enjoy yourself just as much as I will, if not more, but you’re under no obligation to go through with this. I’m not going to force myself on you. I may be a corrupt official, but even I have standards. You can walk away now or you can give yourself to me. Whatever you decide, you’ve already paid the price by giving me your rings. If you choose the former, I’ll furnish you with an exit visa and you can be on the next plane to Lisbon by tomorrow. You’ll never see me again. But if you choose the latter, I’m going to enjoy myself immensely as I give you everything your former husband never could. I may find myself wanting to keep you for longer than just this one night.”

You appreciate him for giving you a choice and the opportunity to back out, but you made your decision from the moment you took his hand and walked out of Rick’s with him. You haven’t changed your mind. You not only want this, you need this. Louis is so much older than you, so much older than your ex, and he possesses a wisdom that could only have come from his decades of experience in France and Casablanca. He’s gotten around both in the streets and in the sheets. You’d even go so far as to say he’s much more handsome and has greater sex appeal than your husband. Sauntering around his apartment, you take in your surroundings before you sit on the edge of the couch and hike up your skirt and unbutton your blouse.

Through body language alone, you make it clear that you don’t want him to touch you just yet, you want him to watch. Louis just stands there as you strip ever so slowly. While you tease him, he clenches and unclenches his fists as if he wants to grab you. Patience is a virtue he doesn’t often possess. When you finally crook your index finger at him, that’s all the invite he needs. You grab his necktie and pull him in to kiss you. Maybe he can use said necktie to bind your wrists together, but that’s an idea you’ll share with him for next time because there most definitely will be a next time. Neither of you want this to be a one and done type of thing. He and you are so eager and excited that you accidentally knock objects off his coffee table as you haphazardly take the rest of your clothes off. He encourages you to lay down, kissing up your legs until he reaches your thighs. His breath is so warm that it makes you shiver with anticipation. He pauses there for a few moments, as if waiting for you to tell him to stop. But you don’t.

You’ve been so touch starved for far too long. His mustache tickles your inner thighs and you can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles. Louis laughs along with you, asking if you’re ticklish. He gets a mischievous glint in his eye, as if he’s going to use this fact against you later to make you laugh more often. And then his tongue… Oh, God, his tongue! He’s amazing in bed, the best you’ve ever had. Even though the “bed” is actually a couch since neither of you could make it to the bedroom. The rare times you were intimate with your ex, he never satisfied you. He only focused on himself and left you high and dry after he decided he was done.

Louis, on the other hand, knows how to please a woman and has incredible stamina. You never knew men did this sort of thing. Your ex never did it to you, but you’re not going to spare him another thought. Especially not while Louis is spoiling you like this. You grip his hair or his hand, needing to hold onto something to keep yourself grounded because you feel like you’re floating or seeing stars. While he feasts on you like a man starved, you crave his touch more than anything. You need him closer. So much closer. There in his apartment, Louis takes what’s owed to him by giving you everything that’s owed to you. On the couch, in his bed, against the wall, wherever you want him he’s yours. You’re in control and he’ll do anything you ask him to. He jokes that, as Prefect of Police, it’s his duty to be at your service and to protect you from anyone and anything.

It surprisingly doesn’t take very long after that night for you to fall in love again. You’d thought that you’d need more time to grieve your first marriage and to heal the wounds it left within you, but maybe you’d been grieving for years without fully realizing it because you already feel like you’re ready to date again, even before your divorce is finalized, and you don’t feel a twinge of guilt about it. Ever since the first time you’d been intimate, he’s insisted you drop the formality of calling him by his rank and instead call him by his name. He’s no longer Captain Renault to you, he’s simply Louis. Your Louis. You become his girlfriend but, unlike all the other women he’s slept with, he’s seriously in love with you. He wants to date you properly and show you just how much of a romantic he is. Over the course of your relationship he shows you everything you’ve been missing. But beyond the incredible sex, he treats you with the love and respect you’ve craved for so long. He listens to you, really listens to you and looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. You’re more than just his girlfriend or bed warmer. You’re his best friend, his partner, and closest confidante. He’s the same to you.

After Victor Laszlo successfully escapes Casablanca and boards the plane to Lisbon with his wife, Ilsa, Louis tells you and Rick that there’s a Free French garrison in Brazzaville and he may be induced to secure a passage. Louis will pay your expenses with both the money he won from your ex-husband and the ten thousand francs he owes Rick for losing the bet on whether or not Laszlo would escape. Though really, the money he won from gambling belongs to you, so think of him providing the letters of transit as just another way of him giving back to you. Together the three of you embark on a new journey, leaving behind Casablanca for good. Together you walk off into the night fog and make plans to head to a fort to end your time on the fringes of World War II. While Rick and Louis plan to join the fight, maybe you can become a war nurse.

Though you’re heading into danger and the unknown, you’re with people that you trust. It’s a triumphant moment for all of you and an uplifting end to this chapter of your lives. For Rick and Louis, this is the start of a beautiful friendship. For you and Louis, it’s the start of a beautiful romance. You’re not eager to marry again so soon and Louis knows this. You both know that you’ll marry eventually, probably after the war is over and the dust has settled, but you can still enjoy a long engagement in the meantime. The money Louis will get when he sells your engagement and wedding rings should be enough for him to buy you new ones. Louis is determined to get you rings that suit both you and him, so much so that he may just let you pick out whichever rings you want. While Louis will be your second husband, you want him to be your last. You know this is the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.

[free-for-all-fics]

Captain Louis Renault Cinderella-esque AU Prompt! This was inspired by The Princess and the Frog a little bit. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 💙🎊

Your best friend is the beloved daughter of an extremely wealthy and powerful businessman. Even after his death, his influence and legacy still follows her everywhere she goes, even all the way to Casablanca in French Morocco, North Africa. She married a man of wealth too, and her husband loves her so much he gives her almost anything she asks for and fulfills any request of hers. Thus, people who don’t know her very well may accuse her of possessing a very spoiled and shallow personality. While most people know that she romantically pursued and later married her husband for his money, you know that she fell in love with him along the way and values him for much more important qualities that he possesses rather than just his money.

She was a prominent socialite back in your home country and her popularity has carried over to Casablanca. She’s doted on and given everything she wants by her husband, the locals, and even tourists who recognize her family name. They may surround and admire her, but she doesn’t take any of their kindness or generosity for granted. She's a ditzy, impulsive diva filled with spunk and flair and while, yes, she’s spoiled and can act self-centered sometimes, she’s very generous and by no means a snob. She’s even told you that if her husband’s only good quality was his money, she would’ve divorced him years ago. You met him many times while they were dating and bonded almost immediately. He’s funny, charismatic, charming, and sweet, and has become like a brother to you. He and she have a lot in common and are perfect for each other. She’s aware her background has afforded her many privileges, which she uses to help better the lives of the people that surround her and populate her life. Though she and her husband are often given special treatment, they don’t believe in the idle rich and do what they can to give back to the community, whether through charity, fundraisers, etc. If they have children, they’re going to raise them to understand the importance of maintaining a balance between giving and taking.

She’s one of the few people from the upper class who refuses to weaponize her wealth or discriminate against and take advantage of the lower class. Sympathy is in short supply in Casablanca, it seems, and she’s one of the few kind-hearted upper class women who doesn’t prey on others. She’s also fiercely loyal to you. She’d never admit it, but you have a feeling that the reason she and her husband haven’t secured exit visas and boarded the plane to Lisbon, when they so very easily could do so at any time, is because she doesn’t want to leave you behind. If you can’t go with her to America, she won’t go at all.

Back in your home country, your mother died shortly after you were born and you were raised by your father. Though you and your now best friend lived in different neighborhoods, you somehow crossed paths when you were children and were attached at the hip ever since. Despite your differences in social and economic class, she invited you over to her grand house for play dates and sleepovers, treating you as an equal. She was an only child and, to her, you were the sister she always wanted. She didn’t have a mother either and was raised by her extremely wealthy but widowed father too, so you bonded over that. When your father was called to fight in World War I, she and her father let you stay with them. Your father had been drafted and had no choice but to go. You knew that even if he wanted to stay home with you, it was out of his hands. But that didn’t make you miss him any less. Your best friend was always the one to excitedly give you his letters the second they were delivered. She’d watch as you opened them, the way your eyes would dart across the page. She’d ask you if you were willing to share with her what the letters said, not wanting to overstep or pry into something so personal. She’d never read your father’s letters without your permission.

But then your father’s letters suddenly stopped coming and you feared the worst. She held you in her embrace and consoled you, giving you a shoulder to cry on. One day, you and she were chatting in her bedroom when her father called for her to come downstairs alone. She reluctantly got up with a promise she’d be right back. When she met her father at the bottom of the stairs, he was pacing back and forth. When he made eye contact with her, his face looked grim. He handed her a telegram addressed to you, telling her that it just came today and, although he answered the door and signed for it, he didn’t feel it was his place to read it first. It was from the War Department. It was the first and only time she opened a letter addressed to you without your permission, but she felt that she had to read it first. She quickly sliced it open with a knife, not caring if she accidentally cut herself. As her eyes scanned over the words, her hopes that your father was only missing and would be found alive were dashed and her fears were realized. She slowly made her way back up the stairs, her heart filled with sorrow and dread as she reentered her bedroom. You were sitting in the window seat, watching the birds and the people passing by in the busy street below as you waited for her.

“Could I speak to you? It's important. It's a telegram. It’s just arrived and it’s addressed to you.”

“A telegram? From whom?”

“From the War Department.”

“It isn't anything about my father, is it?” When you moved to stand up, she softly gestured for you to stay where you were. It’d be better if you remained seated for this.

“Could I sit down beside you for a moment, please?” When you nodded and moved over to make room for her in the window seat, she took your hands in hers and gently squeezed them. She hesitated for a few moments, as if unsure what to say. She knew she needed to choose her next words very carefully, but she also knew it wouldn’t do you any good if she stalled. If she dragged this out for longer than necessary, it would only hurt you more. It was best to just come right out and say it to avoid causing you unnecessary pain.

“What is it?”

She said your name slowly. And then, “…Your father has been killed in action.”

You took the telegram from her, practically snatching it from her lap as you frantically read it over. There had to have been some mistake. “Oh, no. Oh, no, not Daddy. My poor, dear Daddy. And I loved him so.” You fell into hysterics, sobbing so hard that your eyes flooded, your tears nearly blinding you. You felt like you were drowning and you couldn’t breathe. Your friend called your name, but you couldn’t bear to listen. You stood up and paced around the room, as if trying to escape from a horrible nightmare.

“I begged him not to go to war. I begged him. I begged him!”

“Let me say something to you. Will you please?” She had to raise her voice in order to be heard over your wailing, but you only turned your head away from her and collapsed in one of her nearby armchairs, pounding your fist on it as you fell further into a dark pit of grief.

“No, no! Leave me alone! Daddy’s dead!”

You hiccuped and hyperventilated, nearly choking on your sobs. Your breathing became labored and uneven. Your best friend feared that you’d faint from the shock if she didn’t do something to help calm you down, so she called for her maid to keep watch over you while she rushed out of the room and ran down the stairs, practically sliding down the banister. Her dad was climbing up the stairs at the same time she was going down, so she quickly said, “Dad. Dad. Dad, go up to her. I'll get some brandy. Maybe that'll help.”

After your father’s death, your best friend and her father were the only family you had left. He always wished he could’ve had another child, but then his wife died and it wasn’t meant to be. But then you came into his daughter’s life and, by extension, his own. He loved you like a second daughter when you were growing up. Even if you were much older at the time, he wanted to adopt you legally. He asked for your consent and made it clear that, although he’d never try to take your father’s place, he still wanted you to know you were just as much a part of his family as any blood relative. Whether you chose to go through with the legal formalities of being adopted or not, you were still his daughter and your best friend was still your sister. After he died, your roles were reversed and you were there for her in her time of mourning in the same way she had been there for you. When World War II broke out, your best friend and now sister made it clear in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t leave without you. Her husband agreed. It was because of her that you joined her and her husband on the refugee trail and escaped to Casablanca together.

She has always been your ally, ready to fight your corner and stand up for you if any of her snobbish guests or peers were giving you trouble. Whether at parties or out in the street, she always has your back. After she fell in love with her husband, she never much paid any mind to the crowd of sycophants. People like that only want to use other people to better themselves or climb the social ladder. They feign creating friendships but only seek personal gain, not caring who gets hurt in the process. To them, social standing is everything. She used to be like that too, once, until she saw the toll it took on the people she loved most. Fancy titles, social standing, it all became silly nonsense to her and she no longer sees the point in any of it. If she likes or dislikes someone, it’s for who they are and not what they have. She still loves you for who you are and is never ashamed to be seen with you.

She invites you to come along with her and her husband to a party being held at Rick’s Café Américain for a night of fun. There will be live music, an open bar, gambling, and, of course, handsome bachelors to dance with. She smirks and raises her eyebrows suggestively at you when she says the last part, making your face heat up in embarrassment. You roll your eyes and try to wave her off. You remember when the two of you were little girls and played pretend, acting out your favorite fairytales. You and she would dress up in her fancy clothes and act like pretty princesses who were waiting for your handsome princes to come riding in on white horses and kiss you.

“Seems like only yesterday we were both little girls, dreaming our fairytale dreams. Just because I found my soulmate and got my fairytale romance, doesn’t mean you still can’t find yours. There’s a party tonight at Rick’s and everyone is going to be there! You must come!”

“Isn’t there a party at Rick’s every night? What makes tonight so special? Can’t I just sit this one out like I’ve done every other night?”

She purses her lips and pinches you for your sass. You’re right and do have a point that there’s a party every night, but listen! “It’s special because tonight could be your lucky night! I just have this feeling that you might find your other half at this party, but you won’t know until you go, so you’re going. I won’t take no for an answer!”

“You really haven’t changed much, have you? I still want love, but I also want fun. I want a love with lots of laughs. The married couples I’ve seen in Casablanca, they’re a little bit short on laughter. Except for you and your husband, of course. But I know that, if I do find love, it won’t come to me storybook style, with all the trimmings. I won’t exactly be swept off my feet by a handsome knight in shining armor or a handsome prince on his noble steed. Where would I even find a horse these days? Certainly not here in the middle of the desert.”

Your sister looks as if she’s about to protest and tell you to keep your chin up, but her husband knocks on the door and interrupts. She invites him in, hoping he can convince you to see her perspective. “Darling, your timing is impeccable. Tell her I'm right. About love, I mean.” She holds his arm and rests her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with doe eyes. But he has no idea what your conversation was about, so he just sort of shrugs and smiles at you.

But your sister is still determined to play matchmaker for you. You deserve to have a man who loves you like how her husband loves her. She worries that you’re lonely or unhappy sometimes whenever she notices you being a wallflower or recluse. She wants to help you blossom and be seen for the beauty that you are. She has so many beautiful dresses all made from the finest seamstresses across the world, so she loans you one of her evening or cocktail numbers that she’s more than confident will look absolutely ravishing on you. She does your hair and makeup for you and, of course, no outfit is complete without jewelry and accessories. Having really no choice, you let her doll you up. It’s only for tonight, so you’ll do your best to have a good time. Why worry about the future? If you've got anything coming to you, it'll come.

You didn't actually expect to get into Rick’s place. Your sister and her husband, yes, but not you. But Abdul let all three of you pass after receiving Rick’s nod of approval. Your sister makes you promise that you’ll at least try to dance and socialize before the night is over. If you don’t, she swears she’ll drag you out to the dance floor herself and be your partner while she introduces you and hypes you up to every unattached man nearby. You’re single and she wants you to mingle. You know she’s only saying it in jest to tease you and get you to relax, so you promise that you’re going to enjoy this night while it lasts and make the most of it. But you need to sit down and grab a drink first to calm your nerves and steady yourself. While she goes off to dance with her husband, you sit at the bar to order a much needed drink. Sacha, the bartender, is very friendly and you chat with him while he gets your drink for you.

Scanning the room, you take note of the people surrounding you. A middle-aged black man sits on a stool before a small salmon-colored piano on wheels. His hands on the piano make little walking patterns as he plays a jazzy, upbeat tune that’s easy for couples to dance along to. Accompanied by a small orchestra, he sings along during some of the numbers and the crowd of partygoers love every minute of it. All about you there's the hum of voices, chatter and laughter. The occupants of the room are varied. There are Europeans in their dinner jackets, their women beautifully begowned and bejeweled. There are Moroccans in silk robes. Turks wearing fezzes. Levantines. Naval officers. Members of the Foreign Legion, distinguished by their kepis. Everybody comes to Rick’s.

The café is in semi-darkness. The spotlight mostly stays on the man playing piano, but occasionally pans over to the orchestra, the dancing couples, and even the the other attendees sitting at tables or at the bar. A handsome older man in a crisp black uniform decorated with stars catches your eye when the spotlight swings over on him. You see him fully in the light for only a few moments before the spotlight moves and he’s once again obscured in shadow, but just getting that brief glimpse of him was enough to pique your interest. Well dressed men and women surround him, all peacocking as they try to catch his attention and engage in conversation. You don’t know who he is, but he seems either important or popular. Maybe he’s both of those things.

He sets down his glass of brandy and is quick to grab the hand of a beautiful young lady nearby, excusing himself as he goes out onto the dance floor with her. He pulls her into a dance, but you have a feeling he’s only done so to avoid having to endure any more idle chitchat and hollow pleasantries. But it’s not just her. He shares a dance with many beautiful young ladies, in fact. He switches dance partners multiple times, sometimes before songs are even over. It’s as if he’s trying to scope the women out and decide on which one he truly wants to give his oh so valuable time to. Maybe he’s trying to decide who to take to his bed at the end of the night rather than who to dance with. He seems almost bored with the gaggle of beautiful women flocking to him and wanting a turn. But then, during one of the periods when the spotlight once again moves and shines over the bar, he lays eyes on you sitting alone. Who are you? He’s the Prefect of Police, he should have intel on everybody in Casablanca, so how is it that he’s never seen you before and doesn’t recognize you from anywhere? Have you just arrived here?

Without a second thought, he leaves his most recent partner on the dance floor and makes his way to the bar. You notice he’s heading in your direction as he passes through the crowd, but surely he just wants a drink. It can get rather warm in Casablanca, and dancing for so long in such a crowded space is bound to make anyone parched. He can’t be wanting anything to do with you. But he surprises you when he leans his elbow on the countertop and introduces himself to you. His name is Louis Renault and he’s Prefect of Police here in Casablanca. You’re not sure why, but you’re suddenly anxious that having this man’s attention is too good to be true. Though you shake his hand to be polite, you do everything in your power to avoid giving him your name. Giving him your name feels like it would be just as dangerous as when the characters in your childhood storybooks gave their names to the Fae. Names have power. If you gave him yours, it’d shatter the mystique surrounding you and he’d lose interest. If he knew your name, he’d be able to learn so much about you without you even telling him anything.

“Have we met?”

“I do not believe so, Captain.”

“I could have sworn I knew every civilian, refugee, and tourist in Casablanca.”

“Well... I've just recently arrived here with my sister and her husband.”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Yes, you said that. Which one?”

“The only one I have, sir.”

“Are you coy on purpose or do you honestly refuse to tell me your name?”

“No! And yes.”

“Then tell me your sister’s name or that of her husband so I might call one of them to learn who you are.”

No matter how persistent or clever he is, no matter how much he prods and pries for you to give him your name, you find ways around it. He asks you to dance but you refuse, electing to finish your drink. You’re not keen on being tossed away by him like those other women were. Although he appears to be a wonderful and talented dancer from what you’ve seen of him, you’d rather not take the chance of being subject to the public humiliation of being discarded and abandoned in the middle of the dance floor. Though he may or may not see through your excuse, he’s still not deterred nor discouraged by your refusal to dance.

Instead, he asks to join you. He’s a gentleman and only sits down across from you when you give him permission to do so. You are curious about him, so some stimulating conversation over drinks won’t hurt. When you warm up to him after God knows how long you spend together at the bar, he asks you once more if you’d like to dance. You’re not sure if it’s because of the alcohol swirling in your system, but your inhibitions fall away and you finally agree. One dance turns into two which turns into three, so on and so forth until, before either of you realize, it’s nearing the end of the night and will soon be early morning. You’ve been having such a wonderful time talking, drinking, and dancing together that it’s like everything and everyone around you has dissolved and time has slipped away from you.

Louis takes you by the hand and sneaks away with you without anyone noticing. He leads you to a room upstairs to get away from the loud cacophony of music and the indistinct chatter of the gambling and drinking partygoers below. You’re standing on a balcony that overlooks the desert city. You’re so relieved to have a respite. Dancing in Rick’s place is nearly always an intimate affair because the floors are so crowded and Casablanca’s climate is usually a trifle warm, so you’ve worked up a bit of a sweat. Tonight the fresh air feels so nice and cool against your skin after spending so many hours in the hot and stuffy saloon that, while you’re not sure if you’re allowed to be up here, you can’t bring yourself to care or worry about getting caught somewhere you’re not supposed to be while alone with a man.

You’re wrapped up in each other’s arms, looking up at the moon. As you enjoy the peace and quiet, you make a comment about how the moon is beautiful even if you can’t see the stars due to the pollution of the bright neon lights. Louis agrees that it’s beautiful, but you notice he’s not looking at the moon when he says this. He’s looking at you. You look into each other’s eyes and suddenly press your lips together without thinking, almost acting on a shared impulse. The first kiss is brief and chaste, as if you’re both still unsure and testing the waters. But soon after that you go back in for more, your kisses lasting longer and longer as neither of you even take a second to let doubt creep in. Louis leaves a trail of fervent kisses from your shoulder up to your neck. He presses his lips to your cheeks and your forehead before he once more captures your lips. In the background you can hear the clock bell striking, but it sounds so far away, muffled as if underwater. All you can focus on is Louis and reciprocating his kiss, the way his body feels against yours, his arms wrapped around your waist and tangled in your hair…

“Is it eleven o’ clock?” You ask him absentmindedly, your voice low and almost a murmur. Your lips are still locked with his and you wonder if maybe Louis is just as distracted as you are and can’t understand you through your mumbling. But you don’t want to break away from his kiss just yet. Just a little longer…

“I think it’s twelve.”

You’re so startled that you’re broken out of your reverie. Your eyes snap open in alarm and you pull away from his embrace. You break the kiss so abruptly that Louis stumbles and nearly falls forward in his attempt to steady himself and keep hold of you. For a few hours you felt as if you’d been underwater. You were in a state of absolute bliss and floating in a bubble, but now you feel as if you’ve suddenly come back up for air and the bubble you were once in has popped. When Louis asks you what’s wrong and tries to recapture you in his arms, you don’t let him and make up an excuse that you can’t stay another minute and need to get home. Your sister must be so worried about you.

The sound of the clock bell tolling feels so much louder than it was before. It nearly makes your eardrums ring. You hastily curtsy and bid him goodbye, making a run for the exit. He walks so fast he nearly jogs behind you, imploring you to stay just a little longer or to at least give him your name so that he can find you. When that does nothing to make you slow down, he offers to drive you home, but you breathlessly yet politely decline, barely making eye contact with him as you glance at him from over your shoulder. You maneuver through the crowd of party guests and he’s not quick enough to wade through the sea of people like you are. They circle and crowd around him, clinging to him like flies to honey, once more calling his name and vying for his attention. You slip away and, by the time he gets to the door and stands outside on the terrace, you’re long gone. He looks around, but there’s no sign of you anywhere. You’ve slipped through his fingers like water and disappeared into thin air. Why did you leave so suddenly? What reason could you possibly have? Only you know.

The next morning, Louis swears he’s met the most enchanting woman at the party that was held last night. Those parties are usually a complete bore or an excuse for him to find a woman to warm his bed for the night, but your presence changed all that. As the Prefect of Police, the unfortunate reality is that most people are overly polite and fawning towards him to either secure a job promotion that’ll get them to a higher rank, or in the hopes of convincing him to furnish them with exit visas. But you were warm and real, and treated him like you did everyone else. To you he wasn’t the Prefect of Police, he was just Louis. It was very refreshing. He hopes to see you again, so much so that he searches for you under the guise of conducting important police business. While the usual suspects are being rounded up, he looks for you.

Meanwhile, you tell your sister all about your night. She’s your best friend and closest confidante, so you know you can trust her to keep what happened in that upstairs room secret and just between the two of you. She admits that she saw you drinking and dancing with Captain Renault, but it was the first time in months or years that she saw you genuinely enjoying yourself at a party, so she didn’t want to interfere and put a damper on your good time. She was worried when she saw you go upstairs with him, but she knew you could take care of yourself and that you wouldn’t let any man coerce you into doing something you didn’t want to. She trusted you not to do anything that she wouldn’t do.

You assure her that, while it all happened so quickly, nothing untoward took place and you didn’t go any further than kissing. Even if the clock hadn’t struck midnight, you wouldn’t have slept with him. Oh, God, just thinking back on it makes you so embarrassed. You drank, danced, flirted, and made out with the Prefect of Police, of all people! You talked so openly with him that it’s a miracle you didn’t slip up and give him your name. Maybe you should consider yourself lucky that he didn’t arrest you! Your sister tells you not to worry about getting arrested. Captain Renault is an official, but he’s a corrupt official. She assures you that, though he’s been appointed as Prefect of Police by Vichy, he doesn’t take his job all that seriously.

While she wants you to find love, she’s not sure if Captain Renault is the right man for you. She’s concerned that if you try to pursue a relationship with him, you’ll only get hurt. She’s not worried about Captain Renault, she’s worried about you. She’s familiar with his reputation and doesn’t want you to get mixed up in it and have your heart broken. She’d hate for you to get thrown away like a used toothpick like he’d done to so many women before you. She warns you about his womanizing ways and hedonistic behavior. She spares no details as she tells you everything she knows about him, including that he has embraced the corruption and vice that comes with his police uniform, furnishing beautiful women with exit visas only in exchange for either a great deal of money or sexual favors whether they’re married or not. She’s not telling you these things to scare you or to shame you for what you may be feeling. She’s telling you these things so that you’ll be well equipped with information that might serve to help you come to your own conclusions about Captain Renault. She knows how smart you are and trusts that you’ll make the decision that’s right for you. Only you can determine if what you’re feeling towards him is love or not and, if it is, she won’t hold it against you or love you any less. She reiterates that she doesn’t care about Captain Renault. She cares about you.

You know you can’t hide from Louis forever and that he’ll find you sooner or later, so you do your best to mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for when that day comes. When he does eventually have the great fortune of bumping into you, his mystery woman from the party, again, you’re working outside and don’t notice him right away. He watches in admiration as you single-handedly carry objects that look to be rather heavy. You make it look so easy and appear to be built for hard labor, so he thinks that maybe you grew up and worked on a farm and/or were raised by a man. You look so different from when he last saw you, but he’d recognize you anywhere. Your clothing is mostly hand-me-downs, your shoes are scuffed up and worn through, you’ve forgone any jewelry or makeup, and your hair is either loose or messily tied back. Your face is covered in a sheen of sweat and spots of dirt.

When you finally look up and notice him watching you, you’re obviously self-conscious about your appearance as you try to pat down your hair and smooth out your clothes to make yourself more presentable, but he doesn’t care about any of that. You’re still so alike in many ways. You may be poor, but he’s a poor corrupt official. You’re just as beautiful as you were at the party, if not more so. Your intellect is matched only by the grace you display. During your conversation, you finally give him your name. He can tell by your body language that you’ve learned about his reputation and his past actions, but he wants to prove to you he can be better than that. That he is better than that. He‘s honest with you when he confesses that he’s quite taken with you and has never felt this way about anyone before. He pursues you by slipping love letters into your mailbox, leaving you small gifts and flowers at your work or on your doorstep, or paying you visits while out and about in the street. What a coincidence he’d run into you at this café, in the market, or be walking by your house while doing his patrols, etc.

You had planned on your romance being a slow burn as Louis didn’t want to come on too strong or scare you away in his romantic advances. He wanted to go at your pace, he really did, but then the Nazis showed up, he was held at gunpoint by Rick Blaine and forced to help Ilsa and her husband, Victor Laszlo, escape on the plane to Lisbon, and Major Strasser was shot dead all within mere hours. He takes your hands in his own and implores you to come with him and Rick to join the Free French garrison in Brazzaville. He knows this is crazy, he knows you’ve only just met less than a week ago. Oh, Hell, you don’t know him from Adam. But when he looks at you, he feels like you were made for each other. He’s right. So much has happened in just the past three days and three nights alone. It’s all been a crazy and hectic whirlwind, but all the best romances usually are, aren’t they? You take Louis’ hand and the three of you walk off into the night fog. You make plans to head to a fort to end your time on the fringes of World War II. Though you’re heading into danger and the unknown, you’re with people that you trust. Together you embark on a new adventure, leaving behind Casablanca for good.

You make a promise to yourself that you’ll write your sister to explain the situation as soon as you can. Although she may be upset with you, you hope she’ll eventually come to understand that you made this decision of your own free will and why you did it. You’ll wish her well and express your hope that she goes to America with her husband, but will assure her that no matter where she and you end up, even if you’re worlds apart, you’ll find your way back to each other someday. Maybe you’ll be engaged next time you meet. You can’t imagine getting married without her being there at your wedding. If an engagement is indeed in your future, it’d have to be a long one. For Rick and Louis, this is the start of a beautiful friendship. For you and Louis, it’s the start of a beautiful romance. While he’s not exactly a prince or knight in shining armor astride a white horse and is a little rough around the edges, you wouldn’t have him any other way.

He doesn’t have much in terms of wealth or material possessions, and even warns you what your future may entail if you choose a life with him. "I want you to be proud of what I do, so I'll start searching for other, more honest forms of employment. God willing, I'll be able to provide enough in a year for us to…to be together. But I have to warn you," he says somberly, "We’ll likely have to move around in the beginning and will be living in apartments that aren’t the biggest nor the fanciest. Ideally we wouldn’t be living in those kinds of places for very long, just until I can secure another job, but even our house won’t ever be as grand as your sister’s and-”

You stop his worried ranting by putting your hand gently on his lips and shushing him. "I don't care about the money, Louis.” You shake your head, brushing his hair away from his face. "As long as I have you, that's all that matters. It’s as my sister said. If I like or dislike someone, it’s for who they are and not for what they have. I love you for who you are, not for what material possessions you can provide for me.”

He’s a romantic and has sworn to devote every waking minute to your happiness. He treats you like a princess and that’s all you could ever want. He’s all you could ever need. Your knight, your prince, your captain, your Louis.

[free-for-all-fics]

Captain Louis Renault Prompt! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 🚃💚🛤

Captain Louis Renault is walking in the train station behind a stranger. The stranger suddenly stops dead in his tracks and turns around with tears in his eyes. He says, "Tell my wife I love her and our child. Make sure she doesn’t blame herself.” Louis realizes what the man intends to do and has very quick reflexes, but even he can’t close the distance between them in time to save the man and pull him to safety. It’s too late as the man throws himself onto the train tracks, where he’s immediately hit and killed by the oncoming train.

Louis tries to mediate the chaos as the train station descends into a loud cacophony of screams with people rushing about in the confusion without even knowing exactly where they’re going or what they’re doing. The train slowly screeches to a halt and the passengers inside are escorted off as quickly as possible in an orderly fashion by the conductor and service attendants who try to keep everyone calm. Ensuring the safety of those on board is their first priority. Louis knows that, as an officer and witness to the incident, he’ll have to be the one to relay to you the tragic news.

Back at home, you find a tear-stained letter addressed to you from your husband. The top is dated with today’s date. In it, he reveals to you that he was terminally ill and estimated to not live ten more months. Months ago, he came home to tell you, his beloved wife and best friend. But before he could, you told him you were pregnant. Suddenly he lost all his courage and couldn’t bring himself to tell you. He was afraid the stress of the devastating news would only cause you stress that would harm you or put your pregnancy at risk. He didn’t want to put such a heavy burden on your conscience, afraid it’d increase your risk of miscarrying. He admits that it’s the first time in a long time he hasn’t felt hopeless. In fact, he’s full of hope. He hopes you live beyond your years and find absolute happiness. He doesn’t want you to waste your best years in mourning and hopes that you don’t grieve for too long. It’s okay to cry every once in a while, but not all the time. He hopes someday you learn to love again and even remarry. He hopes you don’t hate him for this. He hopes you find it in your heart to forgive him. He hopes you can find some peace in knowing he’s no longer in pain.

Your husband had been acting strange for the past few months and was in so much physical pain lately, but he refused to see a doctor. He called it a waste of time and money, as if he already knew what was wrong and there was nothing to be done. You knew he was sick, but he never let you know just how bad he was. You had no idea he’d commit such an act to end his suffering. You fall into a heap on the floor and cradle your bump as you wrap your arms around yourself, a wet and disheveled mess of grief. The doorbell rings, breaking the heavy silence. You stay curled up on the floor, not wishing to move from this spot. You ignore the piercing sound, already having a horrible sinking feeling that you know who’s at the door. You want to suffocate in the deafening silence. Maybe they’ll just go away and leave you in peace if you don’t answer. Maybe your husband will come home if you wait long enough. But the doorbell rings again after a couple minutes. Whoever’s at the door won’t leave. Your heart fills with dread.

You reluctantly pull yourself up and drag your feet as you trudge to the door to open it, not even bothering to smooth out your clothing or fix your hair. You’re too drained to do anything and couldn’t care less what you look like. You can feel how wet and clammy your face has become from your tears and can only imagine how red and bloodshot your eyes are. You sniffle, wiping your eyes and nose with the back of your hand as you try to clear away your stray tears and snot bubbles. When you finally muster the strength to look up and make eye contact with the two men standing on your doorstep, you notice they’re both dressed in crisp uniforms. The men have removed their hats, holding them beneath their arms and to their sides out of respect. One of the men is wearing an ivory uniform that’s emblazoned with three shiny medals, which indicates to you he’s of higher rank and has higher authority than the man accompanying him.

The man in ivory introduces himself as Captain Louis Renault and introduces you to his aide, Lieutenant Casselle. But it’s their eyes that give them away. Both men look grim and apologetic, and it’s in that moment that your worst fears are realized before anything more is even said. Your husband didn’t change his mind. He went through with it. He took his fate and his life into his own hands and did what he believed needed to be done. While you look the officers up and down, they do the same with you. When they glance down and notice your protruding stomach, you protectively wrap your arms around it. Lieutenant Casselle swallows nervously, but Captain Renault remains stoic as he dutifully relays the tragic news and your husband’s final message. Before you can thank them and close the door, Captain Renault stops you and says that’s not all. There’s more to your husband’s death, so they ask your permission to come in and discuss it. With your current condition in mind, it’d probably be in your best interest to sit down before you hear this.

While making out the report of the incident, Renault did some digging on your husband and looked into his financial records, where some of his final investments and purchases jumped out at him. He reveals that your husband transferred all the money he had into an account for you, but he also secretly had an emergency fund on the side that went towards visas for you so you could get to America. Unbeknownst to you, as your pregnancy progressed, your husband was busy getting his affairs in order, which included ensuring you and your unborn child would have everything you could possibly need to survive. He made plans for you to leave the country because it was too dangerous here in France with the encroaching German Occupation. It was his wish for you and your unborn child to get out of Paris, to get away from the war and to go somewhere safe, somewhere neutral.

He couldn’t raise enough money to afford the visas before his death, but he did arrange a passage on the refugee trail to Casablanca in French Morocco. It’s not much, but it’s something. And something is better than nothing. Renault has procured the train ticket for you and has come to deliver it personally. It won’t be easy leaving Occupied France, but he’ll help you since he’s traveling to Casablanca too. He’s been appointed by Vichy as the Prefect of Police and is to be stationed there. He has no ulterior motive for once. He’s just a romantic who’s always had a soft spot for the less fortunate, especially for beautiful young women in need, like yourself. But you don’t need to know that. He’ll keep that little secret to himself.

Before you depart, you properly bury your dearly departed husband, even if there isn’t much, if anything, of him to bury. He deserves to Rest In Peace, even if you bury an empty casket or symbolically bury a special belonging of his that held sentimental value. You regret that you can’t afford to buy a headstone that bears his name and have to use a makeshift marker. You hope you can return to your beloved France one day and rectify this by giving him a proper headstone after the war is over.

You’re sitting alone on the train, a young widow mourning her loss. To escape the war, you’ve embarked on the long, long, long journey to French Morocco in North Africa. You must endure the torturous, roundabout refugee trail, and this is only the beginning. But this is what your husband wanted. This was his dying wish, his last request. You need to fulfill it and see it through. You remind yourself that you’re doing this not just for your sake, but for your unborn child’s. No matter how bad things get, you need to keep going. You need to be strong enough to endure this. You will be strong enough to endure this. For them. For yourself. For your future.

Anyone could tell you’re traveling from a funeral and clearly grieving just by looking at you. Your black clothes. The way you clutch your handkerchief. The redness around your eyes. The misty film that clouds over your eyes as if you’re trying to hold back tears to spare yourself the humiliation of crying in public. But a man who can’t look beyond his own nose and have some respect starts bothering you and being a creep. He’s trying to flirt and hit on you, a widow in mourning, and he doesn’t care. You’re reaching for your hatpin to stab him when Captain Renault comes to your rescue, asking if there’s a problem here. The man doesn’t want any trouble but, even so, Renault orders him to sit elsewhere and to stop bothering the other passengers. The man tries to protest, arguing that he wasn’t doing anything wrong and shouldn’t have to move since it’s not a crime to try to make conversation.

Renault purposefully muses to himself aloud, wondering if he’ll have to arrest the man when the train stops in Marseilles or Oran. Not a crime, eh?He’d beg to differ. Refusing a direct order from an officer could be a very serious offense. As the only police officer on board the train, it’d be much too easy for Renault to find an excuse and make out a report, even if he’d have to make one up. What a shock it would be if it was reported that the man was found with a stolen diamond necklace in his pocket and apprehended for jewelry theft. It’s the man’s word or Renault’s, and it’s glaringly obvious who the appropriate authorities would believe. The creepy man thinks he’s getting off with a warning and doesn’t have the courage to dare test his luck or to call Renault’s bluff. He’s deemed the risk too high so, instead, he immediately stands down and stops bothering you, suddenly too intimidated and embarrassed by the Captain’s presence and threats. He finally takes the hint and gets up to leave, but not before he’s given one last warning of what’ll happen if he doesn’t desist and is caught bothering any woman again.

After that little scene, Captain Renault doesn’t want to leave you alone while you’re in such a fragile physical and emotional state. He sits across from you, volunteering to keep you company and protect you from anyone else who may try to bother you or give you trouble. You spend a considerable amount of time together, and you share with him your hope to get a fresh start when you come to the end of your journey and finally arrive in Casablanca. He asks you if you could drop the formality of calling him by his rank and simply call him Louis, since he has a feeling this may be the start of a beautiful friendship.

It’s a very, very, very long train ride, and you eventually fall asleep, both physically and emotionally drained. Louis watches over you while you sleep until he rests his eyes for a bit and accidentally dozes off too. When you awaken you realize it’s still night time and you’re cuddled up to him with your head rested on his shoulder while he has an arm wrapped protectively around you. That’s funny, you don’t remember ever moving over. You both must’ve been more exhausted than you thought because you nearly miss your stop. You cross the Mediterranean to Oran and then board another train to get across the rim of Africa to Casablanca.

You go your separate ways upon your arrival. You’re fortunate enough to find a place to live and make yourself as comfortable as you can, working a job that’s not too strenuous on you as your stomach gets bigger. It’s not very spacious and the upkeep of the building is lacking, but it’ll have to do for now until you can afford to find something better. You realize quickly that while Casablanca is considered neutral, it’s not the safest place. You’ve witnessed the customary roundup of refugees, liberals and, of course, a beautiful young girl for Captain Renault. Sex tourism is technically legal due to the corrupt officials who often turn a blind eye and even participate in underhanded and shady activities such as gambling, extortion, and dealings on the black market.

Gendarmes have shot men dead in the street for trying to flee after being found to possess expired papers. On multiple occasions, you’ve overheard a man you know to be a nefarious pickpocket talk to unsuspecting and wealthy tourists who have been attracted to Casablanca for the warm climate, beautiful women and, of course, for the chance to board the plane to Lisbon and seek passage to America. He’ll keep them distracted with chitchat, always sticking to the same script. It’s always something along the lines of, “Unfortunately, along with these unhappy refugees...the scum of Europe has gravitated to Casablanca. Some of them have been waiting years for a visa. I beg of you, Monsieur, watch yourself. Be on guard. This place is full of vultures. Vultures everywhere. Everywhere!” And they’re none the wiser while he robs them blind using sleight of hand tricks. You’ve been extra careful to keep your guard up and steer clear of him whenever he’s around.

One afternoon, you’re sitting at a table outside of your favorite café with a couple of young women you’ve befriended. They tell you all about Captain Louis Renault. They warn you that he exhibits a corrupt and apathetic nature. He works with Nazis, collects bribes and gambling winnings from fixed games at Rick’s Café Américain despite it being illegal, and he extorts sex from women in exchange for exit visas, whether they’re married or not. Most women who are his type, young and beautiful, can’t afford his monetary price for the exit visas he’s selling. They feel like they have no choice but to perform sexual favors for him in exchange for exit visas, all facts Renault is very much aware of. So many women are desperate to escape to America for the sake and happiness of their husbands, even if it means doing something they’ll be ashamed of. Renault is only interested in seeking out his own pleasure and often overindulges in tobacco, alcohol, and sex. Considering how dangerous Casablanca can be, he lives as if he could die any day at any moment.

He’s a rake and a hedonist, perfectly happy to drink or screw himself to death without a care for what goes on outside Casablanca. The silver lining is that he’s always kept his word and procured the exit visas after his price has been paid one way or another. You get to know more about this other side of him that he didn’t display while keeping you company on the train. Your friends share with you their stories and personal experiences with him as a sort of cautionary tale. Both women wish they didn’t have to do it and could’ve left the country without giving in to Louis’ demands, which he called requests because it sounded like a much more pleasant word. But their husbands’ desperate efforts to scrounge up the money through any means necessary all failed. Your friends love their husbands very much, but they saw the toll their failures were taking on them. They felt like they had no other choice. The happiness of the men they love and consider their best friends was the only thing that they wanted in the whole world, but they did a bad thing to make certain of it. And their husbands still don’t know and will never know because they’ll keep this bad thing locked in their hearts. That’ll be all right, won’t it?

Yes, you believe it will be. After all, you loved your husband just as much as they love theirs. If your husband were here and you were in their position, you probably would’ve done the same thing. They found themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place, faced with a plight you wouldn’t wish on anyone, not even your worst enemy. You can forgive them, but they needn’t ask your forgiveness. Like you and many others, your friends don’t want to die in Casablanca. It’s not hard for you to empathize with them. They give you kisses goodbye, promising to write to you. They’ll be waiting for you in America and hope to get together sometime and meet your baby in person once you come over. In the meantime, you’ll have to send them pictures of your baby once he or she is born, and they’ll look forward to hearing about how motherhood is going for you.

Meanwhile, Louis is not a man of strong conviction. He’s a friend to whoever is in power at the time. He works with Major Strasser, but never with Strasser's sense of urgency or conviction. What he does for Strasser is meant to convey a veneer of loyalty. He’s rounded up twice the usual number of suspects. He’s staged Signor Ugarte’s arrest at Rick’s and may have even been directly involved in his death. When he was making out the report, he was still deciding if Ugarte committed suicide or died trying to escape. He’s closed Rick's establishment after pretending to be shocked that gambling had been going on in there, while happily accepting his fixed roulette winnings from the croupier, Emil, in the same breath. Everything he’s done has been to simply to impress his German superior, but he seems not to care one way or the other. He blows with the wind, and the prevailing wind happens to be from Vichy.

You go into labor at an inopportune time while out in public, drawing the attention of bystanders which, in turn, draws the attention of nearby gendarmes and Louis. He immediately rushes into action and helps you to stand and walk as he escorts you to his car and buckles you in, telling his men that he has the situation under control and they can return to as they were. He drives you to the hospital and sits in the waiting room or in a chair in the hallway outside your room the entire time you’re in labor, no matter how many hours pass. Since he’s an official, visiting hours don’t apply to him. Every time a nurse or doctor exits your room or walks by, he asks how you’re faring. He may know a thing or two about women, but he’s unsure how long childbirth should typically last.

Considering it hasn’t been that long ago since your husband died, Louis believes it to still be too soon to admit or act upon his feelings for you. He probably won’t say anything for a good while yet, but he’s fallen in love with you in the time he’s known you. He feels ashamed of himself because you’re probably still grieving and only see him as a friend at most. He’s been sleeping with other women to try to distract himself but, no matter how hard he tries to push his feelings for you down, you always find your way back into his thoughts. He’s tried to get over you, but nothing has ever worked. He’s broken out of his contemplation when one of the nurses approaches him to tell him the news. It’s finally over.

When you permit him to enter your room, his heart swells and grows three sizes. He swallows nervously when he sees your exhausted but elated smile. Your messy hair is sticking to your skin that’s covered in a thin layer of sweat. Droplets still run down your head and neck, giving your skin the illusion of a light sheen. He grabs a wet cloth and wipes the sweat from your skin for you and fetches you a glass of water as he asks how you’re faring. When you ask what he’s still doing here, he lies and claims that he did, in fact, leave to conduct official police business nearby, but then the hospital was on the way when he was doing his patrol rounds. He thought he’d stop by to check in with you briefly before heading back to the Palais de Justice to finish up his incredibly boring paperwork. You know he’s lying to try to emotionally distance himself from the situation and put up a facade of unfeeling indifference. But no matter how much he claims his heart is his least vulnerable spot, it’s just not true. He truly is a romantic and a sentimentalist. He comes to visit you in the hospital periodically throughout the day, and you show him how to hold your baby despite his weak protests that he shouldn’t or doesn’t want to. When you’re discharged and able to bring your baby home a few hours or a day later, he finds the time so he can volunteer to drive you.

Time goes by. Could be months, could be years, but the fateful day has finally come, and you’ve somehow obtained two exit visas for you and your child. Louis may or may not have pulled some strings and countersigned them for you, filling in the names himself to make it look as official as possible. You’re pushing through the crowd to get to the airport. Louis is coming from the opposite direction at the same time you’re trying to board the plane to Lisbon. The bustling crowd of people surrounding you is almost claustrophobic as it squishes you and Louis together face first and you accidentally lock lips as you collide into each other. You’re so embarrassed but he just smiles charmingly, giving you a sly smirk to tease you. He came to say goodbye, but he wasn’t expecting such a sweet goodbye kiss from your lovely lips. You promise to write to each other, and Louis bids both you and your baby goodbye, wishing you safe travels as the last call for boarding is announced. You board the plane and look out the window, but Louis is lost amongst the crowd and you can’t find him. The plane takes off and the people become tiny, indistinguishable specks.

The clipper arrives to port and is docked somewhere in New York. You’ve disembarked and are sitting on a bench somewhere with your baby, just enjoying the city view as you take your time to contemplate what your next move will be now that you’re finally in America. There was a time when you never thought you’d make it this far, and now that you’re actually here, you’re not quite sure what to do next. Maybe you can contact your friends and stay with them? Just for a little while until you find your footing. You’re broken out of your thoughts when a man asks if he can sit next to you. You know that voice. You look up and it’s Louis.

When you boarded the plane to Lisbon, he knew then that if he let you get away for good, he’d regret it every day for the rest of his life. So he had a sudden change of heart and decided to follow you, the woman he loves. Louis knows he shouldn’t ask this of you and that it goes against propriety, but he doesn’t want to be apart from you. He asks if you’d like to go with him to find a place to live and move in with him. When the war is over, the world won’t be the same place as it was when it started, and he promises you that he’ll make something of himself. He doesn’t have a ring now, but would you ever consider marrying him after the war is over?

He’s got a point when he says this goes against propriety and may not be considered socially acceptable, but you believe that it’s better to try to survive together than to try to survive alone in an unfamiliar country. Together you take the bus and go apartment-hunting. You find one. Louis says it must be an abandoned dance studio or something of that nature, but it’ll do for now. You won’t stay here long and will find something bigger and better soon. Once you settle in, one of the first things you do is look up your friends and get in contact with them either through phone or by writing them letters in the mail.

Sometime after the end of the war is announced, you’re married by a Justice of the Peace who’s a bookmaker on the side. Louis has a dollar and a half and the Judge wants two, so Louis makes a bet with him, and loses. An unfortunate setback when the odds aren’t fixed in his favor like they were at Rick’s casino in Casablanca. Louis borrows five dollars from the Judge, leaving your watch as security. He says, "One day is just like another, so what difference does the exact time make?" The ring he’s given you is made from one of his watch chains, but it’s a perfect fit around your finger. It’s lovely and means more to you than any diamond ever could because he made it himself. You’ll treasure it always. You have your wedding breakfast at a coffeeshop. It’s a cheap and imperfect affair, but that makes it all the more genuine. It’s the most romantic wedding you could ever ask for because it’s yours and Louis’ wedding. It’s a perfect reflection of yourselves, rough around the edges and all. You don’t have to get married in style to be happy. All you need is him and your child.

Louis becomes the proud stepfather to your child. He loves and raises them as if they’re his own. They’re his child in every sense of the word except blood. You follow through with your promise to your friends and meet up with them for a little casual get-together, although it may be incredibly awkward at first, given their history with Louis. They watch him through narrowed eyes at first, their gazes full of contempt and uncertainty, but they relax and lighten up when they see for themselves that he’s had a change of heart. The way he interacts with both you and your child is just so loving, so doting. It’s like he’s a completely different man from the corrupt officer they left behind in Casablanca.

He’s left behind his rank as Captain and put his uniforms away, instead pursuing a more honest line of work. He’s become a much better version of himself. Who is this man and what has he done with Captain Renault? And your child is just so cute and adorable, it’s very distracting! When you let your friends hold and play with your child, It’s tough trying to get them back because your friends want to hold and play with them all day! They get such joy from bouncing them and talking to them in baby voices. Either they’ve got the itch or are already working on starting families of their own. You can recognize the signs because you’re feeling the baby itch too. You want another child, but you’ll need to discuss it with Louis first.

You leave your child in the care of a trusted friend while you and Louis go on a romantic excursion around Europe for your honeymoon, stopping at beautiful landmarks along the way. Your first stop is Switzerland. The main reason you decided to go on this romantic getaway trip is because you and Louis want to expand your family. Prior to boarding, your travel agent clues you in on a fun fact about the ride. He says, “By the way, the third tunnel is fifty minutes long. It’s tradition for honeymooners to take advantage of that time.”

You and Louis want to make the most of your honeymoon and get the full European experience with a dash of American flair by having sex on the train that’s transporting you from Switzerland to France. The train you take carries not only passengers but sleeper cars as well. Too bad all of them are full. You’re surrounded by other cabins and compartments with families in them, so you have to be extremely careful and wait for the tunnels. When the train enters the third tunnel, it’s as dark as the travel agent had described. It’s an absence of light. You can’t see your hand in front of your face. It’s so very exciting. You and Louis take advantage of the time you have, or try to. All of a sudden within a short period of time you and Louis start seeing the features of each other’s faces, and you’re both thinking that your eyes are getting acclimated to the dark. But no. Your eyes aren’t adjusting. Your train is coming to a station. Before either of you know it, the train enters broad daylight while you’re both half naked. You, his gorgeous wife, say to Louis those three words a man always wants to hear, “Get off me.”

You’re able to fix your clothing and make yourselves look decent without drawing too much attention. You think fast and make it look like Louis is sick and just resting his head on your lap while you comb your fingers through his hair to comfort him. You’re both very lucky nobody saw anything. It’s a miracle neither of you were arrested or fined for engaging in sex acts in front of other passengers. Well, you got the European thrill with a dash of American flair you were both seeking, just not in the way either of you expected. You’re so embarrassed now, but you’ll look back on this moment and laugh about it later.

You call your friend multiple times every day to check in and ask how she and your child are doing back at home, and they’re doing just fine. You laugh at the stories she tells you of what your child has been doing. When you arrive in Paris, you’re finally able to fulfill your promise to your first husband and give him a proper headstone bearing his name. You and Louis stand at his grave and tell him everything that’s happened. That you’ve learned to love again and remarried. That you’ve found happiness, just like he had hoped for. You and Louis promise your first husband and each other that you’ll tell your child all about their biological father when they’re old enough.

Time moves forward so fast that, before you know it, you’re moving out of your apartment and into a newer and bigger house that’ll be just perfect for your growing family. You and Louis were on the hunt for so long, talking about this house in hypotheticals so much that you almost weren’t sure the day would actually come. But it has, and you just know that this is your forever home. You’re so excited to finally make it yours. Louis is just as excited as you are, though he may just be eager to carry you over the threshold and christen your house.

Time keeps moving forward, and you’re standing on a crowded train with Louis and your child. A friendly passenger standing next to you gestures to you and says to someone sitting down, "Would you mind giving up your seat for this young lady here? She’s pregnant and has been suffering morning sickness.” Everyone, including you, looks at the stranger with a furrowed brow. You know you’re pregnant, Louis knows you’re pregnant, but your stomach isn’t visible yet, so how did this stranger know? They just smile at you knowingly, saying they’re so experienced in this matter that they’ve become very in tuned with body language and can easily recognize the signs. Call it intuition, if you want. When you think about it, it’s funny how much of your and Louis’ love story has taken place on a train, of all things.

[free-for-all-fics]

Captain Louis Renault Prompt feat. you as Rick’s sister! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 💄❤️💋

You’re Rick’s much younger sister. While he’s in his mid-to-late 30’s, you’re only in your early or mid-20’s. You may or may not have been an accident. When you still lived in New York City, you used to be an avid reader of The Boston Globe’s “Women’s Pages”, which featured Polly Webster’s column, “War Time Wife”, packed with tips for weathering the hardships of the war years— including how to generate income from home-based businesses. World War II is an important expansion period for women in business as it brings many women into the workforce, filling jobs so men can go off and fight. That same patriotic fervor also inspires many women to consider starting businesses of their own. But neither of you can return to America, and you both left Paris during the Occupation. The reason is a little vague. Yours and Rick's past is shrouded in mystery, so much so that many people have tried to speculate and uncover the truth of the circumstances surrounding your rather sudden and abrupt departure, but all have failed. For all that is revealed, nobody knows exactly why or when both of you left America, nor why neither of you can return.

However, Major Heinrich Strasser and the Nazis know what you did and why you left. Rick was once an anti-fascist Arms Dealer who supported the Abyssinian regime in its war against Italy, and later the leftist coalition in the Spanish Civil War, with the side he backed losing miserably on each occasion. This and various personal failures led to him being exiled, whether by choice or circumstance. As for what you did to get exiled alongside your brother? That’s a secret you thought only you and Rick knew, but apparently the Nazis know too. They’ve compiled dossiers on the both of you and tell you not to worry, they won’t broadcast either of them. When you and Rick read them, your main concern is: Are your eyes really that color?

Unbeknownst to anyone except Rick and Sam, you were born sickly and that chronic sickness has been with you all throughout your life. It was always your brother who had to watch over you to make sure you didn't run too far away or overexert yourself when playing outside. Rick always kept a close eye on you to make sure you didn't get hurt. If you did get sick or hurt, he took care of you and made sure you had everything you needed, including the right medicine. You’ve often been in poor health. By the age of fifteen, you’d already contracted an attack of mumps, chickenpox, and measles. You recovered from all of those maladies, but were bedridden for most of your life and didn’t get out much due to your weakened immune system. The depressing atmosphere at home in New York City made you even more miserable while you were convalescing.

You were once misdiagnosed as having a terminal illness and, believing you were dying, you wanted to see outside of New York while you still had the chance. Your brother took you on a trip to the seaside, hoping the waters and fresh air could act as a sort of cure to improve your health. Your health was improved only a little, but you found comfort in quietly resting and occasionally taking short walks in the garden or on the beach. This improvement was temporary, and your sufferings once again grew sharper, which confined you to your bed again. After more doctors examined you and it was discovered you were misdiagnosed, you and Rick were so relieved.

It’s not easily noticeable to an untrained eye and you can hold yourself together most days, since you found coping mechanisms that worked for you back then and still work for you now. You’re much stronger now as an adult than you were as a child or teenager, but you still have your good days and bad days. On good days, you almost feel normal and are much more active and energetic. Any pain or discomfort you usually feel is manageable, almost numbed down to practically nothing. On bad days, you often feel like your body hates you and is trying to kill you from the inside. You’re usually confined to bedrest until the worst of it passes, which annoys you because you get bored easily. There’s only so many books you can read before your brain goes numb and your eyes become bleary with drowsiness.

You follow a strict regimen where you take multiple medications everyday and sometimes use a cane on days where you're too weak to walk or hold yourself up while standing, but you made a point to disguise this cane as a fashionable statement piece to hide its true purpose. Although your chronic illness isn’t fatal, Rick still hates that you're hurting and suffering. The medication you have to take and strict routine you live by daily seems like a lot for you to carry mentally, emotionally, and physically just so you can remain somewhat functioning, but you’ve gotten used to it by now.

Captain Louis Renault is an officer appointed by Vichy as Prefect of Police in Casablanca. He’s a handsome, middle-aged Frenchman, debonair and gay, but withal a shrewd and alert official. You still remember part of your conversation from back when you and he first met. He made quite the first impression and it’s impossible to forget. That’s putting it nicely.

“I was told you were the most beautiful woman ever to come to Casablanca. That was a gross understatement.”

“And you, Captain Renault, are wasting your flattery.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I believe my flattery to be well-spent. I may be twice your age, my dear, but I can assure you with full confidence that I'm well-endowed.”

The double meaning when he called himself well-endowed was not lost on you. You were many things, but naive wasn’t one of them. You only rolled your eyes and shrugged off his compliments and attempts at flirtation. The nerve and audacity of this man! He was lucky Rick wasn’t around to hear and that you didn’t care enough to relay to him what was said. You wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but you do know they have some sort of agreement or understanding. You know Rick has paid Renault with bribes by letting him win at roulette and, in return, the corrupt official has turned a blind eye and has permitted your establishment to remain open. Another reason is that, although exit visas have been sold here, neither you nor Rick have ever sold one. He and Rick have gone through women faster than cigarettes, and the both of them seem perfectly happy to drink or screw themselves to death without a care for what goes on outside Casablanca.

“How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce. Now I think I shall pay a call on Yvonne, maybe get her on the rebound.”

When questioned by Renault about his and your backstory, Rick keeps to himself and gives only vague answers concerning yours and his pasts. He doesn’t go into detail. He especially doesn’t tell him anything about your past or your illness. He respects your privacy as much as his own. Your secrets are none of Renault’s business, but if you want to tell him about it, you’ll tell him yourself. To cover for you, he says he came to Casablanca for his health rather than yours.

“I have often speculated on why you don’t return to America. Did you abscond with the church funds? Did you run off with a senator's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me.”

“It was a combination of all three.”

“And what in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?”

“My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.”

“Waters? What waters? We're in the desert.”

“I was misinformed.”

Rick’s idealistic younger self fought alongside those resisting fascism, but the expansion of Axis authority and being suddenly abandoned by the love of his life made him cynical and apathetic. He doesn't take sides with the Vichy authorities, the Nazis, or the Resistance. Rick is now a jaded and weary man who projects a selfish facade, but you know deep down he's still a romantic and a sentimentalist with noble goals. You obviously weren’t there during his romance with Ilsa, uninterested in being a third wheel. You only met her briefly a handful of times, but she seemed like a lovely young lady. You got along just fine and were very close in age, so maybe you could’ve been friends if you had the chance to get to know her better.

But you remember waiting for Rick and Sam on the train, having already boarded and taken your seat to get out of the heavy rain. You were very concerned that the wet, the cold, and the wind would make you very sick if you stood outside for too long. Rick insisted on waiting for Ilsa but, when the last call was announced, only he and Sam joined you. Sam told you later in secret that Ilsa checked out of her hotel, but gave Rick a note that came for him just after he left. You didn’t see what Ilsa wrote, and Rick wouldn’t tell you what the letter said even if you asked. But he didn’t have to. As a woman yourself, you just knew that your brother must’ve been in love with her and her sudden and abrupt abandonment of him must’ve hurt. Much more than he let on.

Ever since establishing Rick's Café Américain, an expensive and chic nightclub and gambling den, its air of sophistication and intrigue has attracted varied clientele including Vichy French and Nazi German officials, refugees desperate to reach the still neutral United States and those who prey on them. Your saloon is infamous for its rogue types and criminals. You like Casablanca well enough and make a decent living, but it’s dangerous as hell and you still dream of leaving. You know you don’t want to live out the rest of your life and die in Casablanca, but you don’t know where you’d go yet or how you’d get there. You still need to figure that out.

You work as a singer or waitress sometimes, but the regulars and staff all know you’re practically the co-owner and second boss. You may be an unmarried young woman, but they know not to underestimate you or get on your bad side. You get along just splendidly with the staff, especially Sam, who’ll happily wheel over his salmon-colored piano and play your favorite songs for you upon request, and sometimes sing duets with you. Like Rick, you won’t tolerate certain people in your place. You rip up German checks and sign new checks. You have access to the safe in the small, dark room just off the office like your brother does. After all, you’re his right hand and it’s your money too. He’s just made two specific rules when it comes to you:

Rule #1: Don’t date the customers.

Rule #2: Don’t bring your boyfriends here.

He’ll book you a hotel room for that sort of thing, but he strictly prohibits mixing business with pleasure. You’ve always respected his rules, but your past lovers sometimes haven’t. They’d try to gain entry to surprise you at work and Abdul, a large, burly man who stood guard at the door, always stopped them from getting any further when Rick shook his head at them. Your romances were hardly anything serious, often frivolous fancies that fizzled out quickly. You haven’t been very lucky in love and often feel like you’ve been dating boys when what you really want and need is a man.

Rick isn’t faring much better and still exhibits the usual signs of a man that’s suffered a broken heart, and it must be because of her. Why else would he tell Sam never to play “As Time Goes By” or drown his sorrows in alcohol? Why else would he keep up a cold and selfish facade, suddenly refusing to stick his neck out for anybody? He doesn’t drink with customers, he plays solitary chess by either playing against himself or playing an opponent through written correspondence only, etc. He’s told you that his professed neutrality allows him to skirt trouble with every competing faction in Casablanca. On the rare occasion he does take an honest stand, he does so in a low-key way that offers him plausible deniability. While you know that may be true, you also know that, while that’s all very logical, it’s not the only reason.

After a few months, you begin to suspect another reason Captain Renault comes to Rick’s is to see you. His timing can’t be a coincidence. He only seems to come into the saloon whenever you’re performing on stage or otherwise working, as if he loves listening to you sing or wants to spend most of his time with you personally. Renault often sits at a table on the café terrace, watching the evening's performance. You don’t need nor want his money, but still he tries using Emil, Carl, or Sacha to pass you little handwritten notes, all of which you immediately tear up in front of him, making a show of how you’re not going to bother to read them. This does nothing to discourage or dissuade him from pursuing you romantically and sexually, however. He loves a challenge, and he loves you, even if you don’t believe him yet.

He flirts with you and lays on that Frenchman charm of his every chance he gets, but he doesn’t lay it on too thick. Can’t make it too obvious since Rick is always around here somewhere. Whenever he finds you drinking and/or smoking alone, he’ll invite himself to join you and sit next to or across from you. He fills two empty glasses, helping you and himself to a fine glass of brandy, champagne, or French wine. He then flicks open his lighter, giving you and himself a light. You each take a drag of your respective cigarettes. “Well, darling. I’m very pleased with you. Now you’re beginning to live like a Frenchwoman. Oh, Emil. Please, a bottle of your best champagne, and put it on my bill.”

“Very well, sir.”

“No, Captain, please.“

“No. Please, my darling, it is a little game we play. They put it on the bill, I tear the bill up. It is very convenient. But I’ll pay my tab this time because, my dear, I love you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“All right, all right. For you, I’ll shut up, because, my dear, I love you.”

You look at him bitterly before changing the subject, never taking your eyes off him. “That was some going-over your men gave my place this afternoon. We just barely got cleaned up in time to open.”

“Well, I told Strasser he wouldn’t find the letters here. But I told my men to be especially destructive. You know how that impresses Germans?”

You only roll your eyes at his antics. You may be pretty, but you’re not a pretty little fool. You know what kind of man Renault is and hate him with your entire being…or do you? You’re not afraid to speak your mind, and have been so bold as to call him a rascal, a scamp, a rake, an indomitable playboy and more to his face, your voice always laced with venom. You’ve got a fiery personality that sets his heart ablaze. That and your lively spirit are just more qualities he loves about you. You’re a little spitfire, and he’s not going to be the one to extinguish or stamp out the light which shines ever so brightly in your eyes. God help whoever would dare to do such a thing. That hypothetical person would quite possibly find themself at the end of his pistol. He’d never arrest you, but he has teased you by threatening to handcuff you if you continued to be so naughty and resist his advances. He’d call it “resisting arrest”.

Renault is a hedonist and has embraced the corruption and vice that comes with his police uniform. Young Bulgarian newlyweds, the Brandels, try to buy passage to Lisbon from him, but he wants either a very large sum of money or sex with the wife. Renault is willing to take the money, if they do happen to have it, and apparently has always kept his word. But still, you’re disgusted that he’d extort desperate and vulnerable women like that. There is a silence. Annina is very disturbed as she talks to Rick. He quickly goes off, leaving her alone at the table. She remains seated, too demoralized to move. But in the end, Rick helps them to raise the money by cheating to let them win at roulette so they can afford to pay Renault for an exit visa, rather than the young wife having to use an alternative method of payment. Rick has done a beautiful thing, which further shows you that he isn’t as heartless as he claims to be. Renault, seeing that Jan has won, gets up from his table to follow Rick. He playfully prods at Rick’s cynical facade, showing that he doesn’t really buy his friend’s gruff demeanor.

“As I suspected, you’re a rank sentimentalist.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Why do you interfere with my little romances?”

“Put it down as a gesture to love.”

“Well, I’ll forgive you this time. But I’ll be in tomorrow night with a breathtaking blonde, and it’ll make me very happy if she loses.”

Whenever you have an especially bad episode that leaves you bedridden for days at a time, you get to see Rick’s caring disposition as his mask melts away and he becomes Richard, the brother you remember from before the war. He often summons physicians to him every morning and three or four other times during the day, questioning them minutely as to your condition. You’ll want for nothing and won’t miss any medication times while under his watch.

There’s a little platform that’s been built into the saloon as a makeshift stage but, whenever you’re out, the stage remains empty. Musical entertainment is one of the main attractions that pulls customers into the saloon and, while the crowd greatly enjoys Sam’s singing and piano playing, the more days that pass without you making an appearance, the more the crowd misses your voice and guitar playing. In your absence, music still plays and business still does well, but there’s a noticeable dip. The place isn’t as full as it usually is when you’re around, so Rick hires Corinna to fill in for you until you can return. Her presence helps, but it’s not quite the same without you.

One night, you’re so sick and tired of being sick and tired all the damn time that you have way too much to drink in a vain attempt to either numb the physical pain your body is suffering through or to numb your brain from having thoughts of Louis— Renault! Captain Renault! You’ve never called him Louis and it annoys you how much you suddenly want to hear the way his name sounds when it comes from your lips. You sit at the bar, drinking brandy and conversing with Sacha. You glance out of the corner of your eye to covertly watch Renault from afar as he’s sitting at a table, conversing and drinking with his superiors. You turn to look at Sacha and extend your empty glass to him, ordering him to give you another.

Rick interrupts and tells Sacha you’ve had enough. You try to order Sacha to ignore your brother and to fill it up. Sacha loves you, and you pay him just as Rick does, but Rick is older than you and currently sober. His word trumps yours in this situation. You wheel on Rick with drunken fury, telling him you’re sick and tired—, but Rick takes you by the arm, telling you you’re going home because you've had a little too much to drink. You try to fight back. Who does Rick think he is? Your father? How dare he order you around! Renault watches the scene unfold with a worried brow and follows both of you outside as Rick puts your coat over your shoulders, which you object vehemently to.

Renault offers to take you home, claiming it’d be faster than trying to get a taxi at this hour. He has no more commitments for tonight, so he could watch over you until Rick finishes up business here. Rick very much doesn’t want to leave you alone with Louis, but, for whatever reason, he has no other option. Renault helps you into his car, buckling you in. Rick is left standing on the curb, his face completely deadpan as he smokes. He tells Louis in no uncertain terms to call him as soon as he gets in the door so he knows you’re safe, and warns him not to do anything funny. He expects him to get you into bed, but not get you into bed. He doesn’t need to elaborate. He knows Louis knows exactly what he means. He nods and gets in the car, leaving Rick to watch as it pulls away. He has to wait for Ilsa so he can’t come home tonight, but you’ll be fine. Louis wouldn’t do anything to you. You’ll be fine.

You wake up the next morning and immediately regret it. Your head and body are already suffering the consequences of your chronic illness combined with your aggressive hangover. You’ve learned the hard way why doctors always tell you never to mix alcohol with your pills. You don’t remember much of last night or getting home, so you scream when Renault knocks lightly on the door and comes in. You thought he was Rick! Where is Rick? He pours you a glass of water and hands you your medications for both your hangover and your illness before he sits on a chair across from you, keeping a respectable distance. So he knows. Great. You went to such lengths to hide it but circumstances drove Rick to break his promise to himself and to you. He had to finally tell Louis about your illness when the latter called him on the phone after getting you home. You have no one to blame but yourself, really. You made the foolish decision to drink too much and- wait. Hold on. Why do you feel so cold? A quick glance under your covers sends a cold sweat through your body. You’re naked. Why are you naked!? Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“Please tell me, we didn't...”

“Did we ever. Oh, my dear, it was extraordinary! The heat, the gymnastics. I mean, you had moves that made even me blush,” Renault teases you with a suggestive smirk.

“Oh, no. This is bad. Whatever happened last night, don't tell me. I'd rather not know.”

“What, that we didn't go to bed together?” He takes a drink of brandy. He’s helped himself to Rick’s private stock. It was a long night of watching over you and he barely got any sleep, so he needs it. Hopefully his friend won’t mind too much.

“We didn't?” You look at him dumbfounded. Did you hear him correctly? Are you still sleeping and just having a very weird fever dream? Who is this man and what has he done with Captain Renault?

“Nope, I turned you down cold,” Renault confirms, popping the P.

“You, the man who's been trying to get me into his bed since day one, had a chance to sleep with me, and you didn’t...? Why-why am I naked?”

“What, you mean you don't remember the part where you passed out, woke up again, shouted at me, ‘It's too hot in that neon hellhole,’ I believe it was, then tore your clothes off and proceeded to pass out again, forcing me to carry you to your room and tuck you into bed?”

“I do that. Sometimes. When I'm upset. And you would be, too, if you were a woman and in my position! As if the physical pain I live with day in and day out isn’t enough, you just had to keep coming to Rick’s and worm your way into my heart and my thoughts! What a fool I am to fall for a man like you!”

You’d never even consider a romance or sexual relationship with him unless he changed his ways. He’s going to have to prove to you that he can change and, if you do this, you’ll have to be discreet about it. You’ve always respected Rick’s rules but then, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, Captain Renault walked into yours.

You and Louis, as he’s insisted you call him by his first name in private now that you’re dating, have to get creative to keep your love affair a secret from Rick and the rest of your friends and associates. You can’t just use postal acronyms or Morse code! Those would be far too obvious and Rick would be able to decipher them immediately. The little messages he passes to you when you’re at work become red herrings to throw people off the scent. You really keep in contact by passing messages in lipstick tubes, film canisters, lockets, or rings with hidden compartments. When you first go out to the market to buy new makeup, the merchant pretends to offer you rare and one of a kind lipstick colors he claims have been made “especially for you”. The lipstick names are actually code so that you’ll know they’re from Louis. Inside each special lipstick tube is a small compartment underneath the actual lipstick color that holds encrypted messages to you. The first one simply reads, "Do you recognize my handwriting, my dear?"

It’s your cute little way of sending messages with a kiss, and you get free lipstick out of it too. Whenever Louis sees you wearing one of his shades, his blood boils with desire and he has to resist the urge to kiss you in public. If he could, he’d grab you and kiss you so many times and with so much passion that your lipstick would smear or get wiped off. Your and Louis’ relationship is nowhere near perfect and you’ve had your fair share of disagreements and frustrations, usually due to your significant age difference and the stressful situations that inevitably come with living in Casablanca during time of war. Often you’ve rolled your eyes at each other and, during one of your little lovers’ quarrels, Louis even once said to you, "War? You do not yet know war. You are a child who has tasted their first autumn frost and called it winter."

You and Louis face many difficulties, indeed, but you overcome them. You made a mutual decision early on in your relationship to do so. Despite your differences, you both feel like you’re desperately in love with each other. On rare, opportune times when you have the chance to get away in between Rick’s daily checkups on you, you pack some stuff to take with you and sneak out. Louis meets you at a secret halfway point, parking his car far away enough so he can drive you to his place without either of you being seen. He can’t drive or walk you home, but it’s worth it to have these romantic date nights, which often include dinner and sex. Neither of you really want to have sex in Rick’s place. Not only would it be far too risky with the chances of getting caught in the act much higher than either of you are comfortable with, but the very thought of it is an instant mood killer.

Your brother finds one of your secret messages, but nobody has been able to crack the code since it’s one you and Louis created yourselves. Only you and he know it. Rick and Sam ask you about it, but you feign ignorance. Just like Louis and Rick, you’re a talented liar. You know exactly what this particular message means, you know what they all mean. They’re so romantic and sometimes even racy. You’ve kept them private for a reason, too embarrassed to explain what it says or why you understand it.

One night, a middleman passes Louis’ secret message onto you by handing you a film canister. You hear something rattling inside when you shake it. That’s weird. Usually the film canisters contain slips of paper that don’t make much noise, if any. What’s making that sound? When you open it, there’s no film and there’s no note. But there is a ring. Words cannot even begin to describe the great deal of ambivalence that’s overwhelming you in this moment. You feel like your heart is in your throat. It’s beating too fast. Your mouth goes dry and you struggle to swallow or breathe.

You feel like your body is on autopilot as you walk all the way to Louis’ office to confront him. You’re struggling to keep it together. What’s the meaning of this? Your hands are shaking as you hold the film canister up for him to see, the ring still safely inside. Louis takes both of your hands in his own, kissing them. You clutch the canister in your fist as he holds your hands and has you sit down. He helps you breathe as he waits for you to overcome your shock. You’ve never been proposed to before, so you can’t tell if what you’re feeling mentally and emotionally is exacerbating your illness, or if this is just what it’s supposed to feel like when the person you love proposes to you. His hands are so warm. You try to focus on that and the warmth of his brown eyes to keep yourself grounded. Louis already knows that you know very well what him giving you a ring means, so he doesn’t feel the need to respond to your line of questioning. He’s right, you do know what it means. But your brain is still struggling to catch up to your body.

"What... What are you thinking? There's no possible way... No one would allow it!" You’re an adult woman, you know you don’t need Rick’s or anyone else’s permission to marry. The choice is yours and yours alone, but having to make such a life-altering decision where there’s no going back fills you with apprehension. But maybe that’s what you want. No going back. You know what it is to work now, to have a full day, to be tired in a good way. You don’t want to return to your pre-war existence. You want to move forward.

"I know I shouldn't ask this of you, but I can't keep it in any longer. When the war is over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started. And I'll make something of myself, I promise.”

"I know you will! But, Louis,—”

"Until I met you, I never really knew what love was supposed to be. If we can't be happy here, we must leave for a place that will accept our love.“

“But, Louis, is there such a place? Think... I can't bear to see you hurt."

“If our love has no home, let us spend our lives searching together! Bet on me. And if Ricky casts you off, it won't be forever. He’ll come around. And until he does, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness. If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. So I beg of you again... My darling, marry me! I promise I will make you happy."

"You...just won't give up, will you? Of all the crazy...stubborn...foolish men..."

"My dear, answer me, please!"

"Louis, I love you. Take me away. Take me to a place where we can be happy.”

[free-for-all-fics]

While writing for Casablanca, my prompts ended up becoming much longer than originally planned… So I’ll be posting them separately! Here’s the first of many Captain Louis Renault prompts to come! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 💙👨🏻‍✈️

Your parents were political activists who participated in anti-Nazi protests and handed out anti-fascism flyers, among other acts of resistance. You and your younger sibling began handing out anti-Nazi pamphlets, which attracted the notice of a commander leading the French Resistance. With your parents’ permission, you both joined the Council of Resistance, which brought you and your sibling into a coordinated effort. While your parents hid Jewish refugees in your family home, you and your sibling worked to sabotage the Nazi military presence in France. You used dynamite to disable bridges and railroad tracks, and smuggled Jewish children out of the country or helped them escape concentration camps. The two of you worked your way up to killing German soldiers and Nazi collaborators, with your sibling being the first to kill a soldier by shooting him while riding their bicycle. You would approach the soldiers in taverns and bars, and ask them to go for a stroll in the forest under the pretense of a romantic overture. You’d then kill them by shooting them where nobody would hear the gunshots or find the bodies until after you were long gone, leaving behind no trace.

Your parents sacrificed everything they had to get you and your younger sibling to Casablanca in French Morocco, as far away from Europe and the war as they could take you. They promised you they’d follow behind you shortly, but you were both old enough to know this was a lie meant to urge you to board the train without looking back. They couldn’t afford to get either of you to Lisbon or America, so it was up to you now to protect and provide for your sibling as their legal guardian. Your parents entrusted you with looking after your sibling and keeping them safe, as well as yourself. As the train pulled out of the station, you watched in horror as German officers apprehended both of your parents. You could do nothing but cry inconsolably. It was a cold comfort, but you thanked God for your quick reflexes as you pulled your sibling’s head to your chest, holding them there to stop them from looking when they asked you what was happening. You didn’t want them to see.

Now, like many others, you’re waiting, waiting, waiting. There was even a time when you started to lose hope that you’d ever get out of here, certain that you’d die in Casablanca. The war is lasting much longer than anyone could have ever imagined, but you can’t give up. Not now, not ever. Your parents gave you all the money they had, and you’ve put your sibling’s needs above yours for as long as you could. You’re still trying to give them the best life you possibly can in spite of the dire circumstances, but Casablanca, though a neutral zone, is far from a peaceful paradise.

Your sibling is so young. They were too young to have been exposed to such hate, violence, and bloodshed. You wish they never had to get involved in the Resistance, but it’s something they wanted to do not just for your family, but for the people of France. In Casablanca, you do your best to shield them from the horrors and tragedies of war, as well as the black market dealings, illegal gambling, alcohol, and sex that seems to run rampant due to the corrupt officials who participate in it. You live frugally for many months but, even though you save and spend your money wisely, pretty soon you’re running extremely low. You were impoverished when you first arrived, and you’re not faring much better now. You’re still sleeping in what’s practically a broom closet with poor conditions, but you still have to pay rent. Expenses keep popping up and, despite all your efforts, you can’t seem to secure or hold a job for very long, so you keep hopping around.

You haven’t received word so you can’t know for certain, but you just have this horrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that your parents are either still imprisoned or dead. Killing Nazis and blowing up train tracks seemed so much easier than looking after another human being. You have no idea what you’re doing when it comes to looking after a child, but you’re the only family your sibling has left. They need you now more than ever. Now that you’re in Casablanca, you want to give them the chance at having a good and normal-ish childhood, but they grew up too fast and have to be reminded and accept that they’re still a child, which is a feat that’s easier said than done. World War II has taken up the better part of your sibling’s childhood, forcing them to grow up quickly in order to get your family through the war, and a part of you grieves for their lost innocence.

To keep a roof over your heads, clothes on your backs, and food in your stomachs, you go to Rick’s Café Américain. Rick's is an expensive and chic nightclub which definitely possesses an air of sophistication and intrigue. Abdul, the large and burly man who’s standing guard at the door, is kind enough to keep an eye on your sibling while you conduct what you call your “boring adult business” inside. But your sibling is perceptive enough to know what you’re really going to do in there.

“You want to pawn Mother’s jewelry? The only thing we still have from her?”

“Temporarily.”

Upon entering, your senses are assaulted and almost overwhelmed as you try to squeeze through the many, many, many customers. The lights are bright and there’s a heavy scent of smoke wafting through the air that nearly makes you cough. Sam, a middle-aged black man, sits on a stool before a small salmon-colored piano on wheels, playing and singing while accompanied by a small orchestra. All about him there’s the hum of voices, chatter and laughter. The occupants of the room are varied. There are Europeans in their dinner jackets, their women beautifully begowned and bejeweled. There are Moroccans in silk robes. Turks wearing fezzes. Levantines. Naval officers. Members of the Foreign Legion, distinguished by their kepis. It’s almost too much for you to handle. There’s much activity at the various tables, and it takes you a while to find one that’s empty. As you wait for the pawnbroker, you can overhear another woman selling jewelry too. She’s very well-dressed, but is wearing no jewelry except for a bracelet on her wrist.

“But can’t you make it just a little more? Please.”

“I’m sorry, Madame, but diamonds are a drug on the market. Everybody sells diamonds. There are diamonds everywhere. Two thousand, four hundred.”

“All right.”

You had already pawned everything else of value. You had hoped that you would never have to pawn this. You promised yourself you would only do so in case of emergency. Well, that emergency has come. There are some things of hers she left you that you brought with you in her old jewelry box, but none of it is worth anything except maybe this necklace of hers. A simple but beautiful necklace and one of the last things you have left of her. Had. You’re very reluctant to give it away, practically unwilling to part with it, but you must. You anxiously watch as the pawnbroker closely inspects the necklace with his loupe, waiting for his appraisal and hoping for enough to last you through the week. You’re not as fortunate as the woman with the diamond necklace. He tells you your mother’s most favorite necklace, the last thing you have left of her, is—

“Brass and glass.”

“No gold or gems?”

“I'd really like to help you, but see for yourself. I can’t give you more than this. I can’t do anymore for you.”

Sympathy is evidently in short supply in Casablanca. Having no other choice, you take what little cash you’re offered and leave with the crumpled banknotes, wiping a stray tear off your face before meeting your sibling with a practiced smile, but it’s still strained. Knowing the gravity of the situation and what you just did, they grab your hand and squeeze it gently. They smile wanly at you and their reassurance rings hollow as they tell you,

“That’s okay. We can buy something new.”

And with what? You have very little money for food and what you received from the pawnbroker isn’t even enough to cover a fourth of the cash you’ll need to cover the month’s rent for the small room you’re sleeping in. You’ll be lucky if this lasts you through the week. You’ll be lucky if this lasts you till the day after tomorrow.

That night, you put your sibling to bed. You quietly make yourself look pretty as you sit in front of the dirty vanity mirror. You put on your best dress and some makeup, however minimal you own. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. After so long, you can't bear to go back there. To face them again. Those fake smiles and hollow pleasantries. Those pressed uniforms. You hate them. You hate them all so much. Especially him. But desperate times call for desperate measures. This isn’t just for your sake, but for your sibling’s. You grit your teeth and swallow your pride as you pay a visit to Captain Louis Renault’s office. He’s been appointed by Vichy as Prefect of Police in Casablanca, so is in a position of power or influence that could help you. For a price. He’s a handsome, middle-aged Frenchman, debonair and gay, but withal a shrewd and alert official. He’s one of the last officers still in the Palais de Justice, finishing up making out some report. Only his aide, Lieutenant Casselle, is with him. But he’s just about to retire for the night and leave Renault to lock up.

“Excuse me, Captain. I know it’s very late, but another visa problem has come up.”

“Show her in, and then you’re dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When you enter the room, Renault is looking at himself in a mirror, straightening his tie and fixing his hair. He’s very pleased to see you, and doesn’t even bother hiding how much he’s waited for this day. For you to come to him willingly, of your own volition. He’s flirted and made multiple advances on you in the past, practically from the very moment he saw you. His heart is his least vulnerable spot, but he’s always had a weakness for beautiful young women like yourself. Consider it a vice, if you will. He’s tried many different methods to lay on his classic Frenchman charm and get you in his bed, but you refused him at every turn for the longest time. You held out for as long as you could, longer than any other woman ever had, in fact.

You were quite the challenge, which did nothing to discourage or dissuade him. It only made him more excited. He admired your spirit, and your refusals and contempt of him only made him want you more and more. He wanted to partake in the forbidden fruit, and the wait he’d have to endure would only make it taste that much sweeter. He knew you needed exit visas for your sibling and yourself, but you’re a smart and independent woman who’s full of spunk. You wanted to obtain exit visas through other means, ideally honest means, but things didn’t turn out as you’d hoped.

“You get prettier every week.”

“And you, Captain Renault, are wasting your flattery.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I believe my flattery to be well-spent. I may be twice your age, my dear, but I can assure you with full confidence that I'm well-endowed. I've always had a soft spot for the less fortunate. I may be just a poor corrupt official, but you need a benefactor and, with my position as Prefect of Police, I may be in use to provide better living accommodations for you and your sibling. To be frank, I’ve grown bored in my little romances. I’ve come to realize that I need a young lady with spirit. A young lady like you.”

His double meaning when he says “well-endowed” is not lost on you. You know the kind of man Captain Renault is, which is why you’ve done everything in your power to avoid him up until now. He’s an official who’s embraced the corruption and vice that comes with his police uniform, rounding up twice the number of usual suspects and regularly receiving fixed roulette winnings and bribes from Rick's while blatantly turning a blind eye to the illegal gambling and underhanded black market dealings that take place there. He may call himself a romantic but, to you, he’s a rake, an indomitable playboy, a scamp, a hedonist who’s gone through women faster than cigarettes and only ever seems to care about nothing and no one but himself. Many beautiful women with very little pocket money have come to him in hopes of obtaining an exit visa. He’d always keep his word and procure them, but only after receiving either monetary compensation or sexual favors, regardless of their marital status.

He invites you to sit down in the chair in front of his desk while he sits across from you on the other side. After some negotiating where you set ground rules and work out other fine print details, you become Captain Renault’s kept woman. He drafts up a contract he has you and himself sign, just to get it all down in writing and make it feel more official. He’s just a poor corrupt official, but the bribes and fixed winnings he receives at Rick’s and his position as Prefect of Police gives him a stipend that allows him the ability to provide for and take care of you and your sibling.

You’re very confident and outspoken in your opinions, and seldom like being told what to do. You tell him in no uncertain terms that that’s not going to change any time soon, and you’re not going to become a hollow little ornament on his arm that just stands there and looks pretty. You won’t just bend to his will now that you’ve struck a deal. He laughs and nods in agreement, not expecting any less from you. You don’t need to change for him, he wants to keep you just as you are. You’ve got fire and he likes fire. He loves watching as your eyes flicker and light up, ablaze with indignation and...something else. He’s not going to be the one to extinguish it. God help the hypothetical person who tries. They may find themself at the end of his pistol. Now that he has you, he doesn’t stray to any other woman and loses interest in them all. you’re all he wants and needs. He’s going to hold onto you and never let you go.

You and your sibling move into the bigger and better apartment Renault has provided for you. It’s not super glamorous or anything, but it’s a massive improvement from the rundown and dilapidated shoe closet you were living in before. You tell your sibling that you’ve been making a comfortable living as a waitress or seamstress and raised the money yourself, but this conflicts with what your sibling sees in the apartment, such as new dresses hanging in the closet and bottles of French wine in the kitchen. Tokens of love from Renault. As well as clothing, school supplies, and toys for them. All of these new and shiny things are likely obtained through dubious means, but Renault has no qualms over that. Your sibling makes assumptions and confronts you, but frightens themself with their own vehemence and immediately apologizes, knowing you only want what’s best for them and everything you do is out of love and for the sake of their well-being.

You confess you lowered yourself to taking an officer as a lover, and it’s he who’s furnishing yours and your sibling’s new lives. You tell them it’s strictly business, a contract of convenience as a means to ensure yours and their survival, and nothing more. You leave out all the racy details and don’t elaborate any further, not even divulging his name. They don’t need to know what exactly you’re doing and who you’re doing it with in exchange for all of these things, so you just promise to explain when they’re older. Much older. When you have to leave the apartment at night to go on dates with Captain Renault, who insists you now call him Louis, you leave your sibling in the care of neighbors you’ve befriended during your stay. These neighbors once had children of their own, so you know they can be entrusted with your sibling’s well-being and watch over them in your absence.

Your nights are often filled with you being on Louis’ arm, dressed up pretty in fine dresses to attend dinner dates and get-togethers with him at Rick’s. He’s not musical, but he’s a wonderful dancer. Sometimes you’ll grace the dance floor, moving in time and letting loose to the jazzy music Sam plays. Dancing at Rick’s is nearly always an intimate affair because the floors are always so crowded with other couples. You often work up a bit of a sweat, but that’s nothing compared to the sweat you work up on nights you’ll engage in sexual activities in Louis’ office at the Palais de Justice. Both of your bodies tingle from the thrill of technically having sex in public. He haphazardly swipes everything off of his desk with a single flourish of his arm as you try to strip each other of your clothes as quickly as possible while kissing and groping with fervor.

The door locks and all of the windows are shut with the shutters drawn closed, but the Captain’s fellow gendarmes and loyal orderlies, along with his aide, Lieutenant Casselle, can hear the familiar sounds of objects hitting the floor and erratic thumping. They know exactly what’s going on behind closed doors. While they try to distract themselves and drown out the sounds you and Louis make, they see to it that you’re not disturbed. Once your “very important business meetings” are over, you’ll either share a post-coitus drink or a fresh cigarette from a box on his desk. You’ll either chain-light your cigarette with his or, if he’s running low, you’ll share a single cigarette, passing it back and forth as you take turns taking drags. But you can’t stay for very long.

“Louis, I don't wish to be the one to say it, but it's late.”

Glancing at his wristwatch, he nods in agreement. “So it is. And we have a curfew here in Casablanca. It would never do for the Chief of Police to be found drinking after hours and have to fine himself.” Once you’re both decent, he presses a button on his desk, triggering a buzzer. The door is opened for you and you’re smuggled out through a rear exit and driven home. The whole affair is always hushed up.

Other times, you’ll have “nights in” and meet in the privacy of the apartment Louis gave you while your sibling is out. He’s a rake and a womanizer, a hedonistic and corrupt official, a man of many vices and indulgences. But, God, he’s an incredible lover and a man of many talents. Your lovemaking often ranges in volume and intensity. The two of you can enjoy soft, almost lazy sex or become so loud and boisterous in your mixed guttural moaning and groaning as you become lost in the moment. Louis’ hands become entangled in your hair as he pushes and pulls on it, his body so warm and heavy whether he’s on top or underneath you. He’s so comfortable when he’s wrapped around you like a blanket. You’re so blissed out in the afterglow that you see stars sometimes. The aftercare is just as good, if not better than the act itself. However, despite being his mistress, you’re still somewhat liberal for your time and refuse to be mistreated, undermined, humiliated, demeaned, or controlled by any man, especially Louis. Just because you’re sometimes submissive in bed doesn’t mean you’ll be submissive to him in other situations.

One night, you’re having dinner with him at Rick’s. He lets you order whatever you want, wanting to treat you in return for how well you’ve been treating him. He tells you not to worry about the bill. It’s a little game he likes to play. They put it on the bill, he tears the bill up. It’s very convenient. But you just push your food around with your fork. He tries to engage in conversation with you or make you laugh with his little jokes and quips, but you space out and can’t even be bothered to muster up a wan smile for him. You seem distracted, as if your mind is elsewhere. Your body is sitting across from him, but your mind is far away.

Your eyes look sad and empty, void of the light or fire he so loves to gaze into when you’re in carnal embrace. He reaches across the table to try to hold your hand and squeeze it reassuringly to comfort you, but you pull your hand away when his skin touches yours as if his touch burns you. He leaves his hand outstretched and open on the table for a few moments, silently inviting you to place your hand in his. He retreats and places it back down and to his side when he realizes you won’t. You probably don’t want to be touched right now. You probably don’t want to even be here and just want to go home. But why? He needs to broach this gently.

“My dear, you've eaten hardly anything.”

“I know. I'm not very hungry. You haven't eaten much either, Louis. And you probably need more food than I do.”

“I had a big lunch.”

“Oh. If you eat some more, Louis, I'll eat some more.”

“All right.”

You finally take a few small bites of your meal, but you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it. Louis watches you closely as he takes a few bites out of his meal too, but he doesn’t like what he sees. Despite your promises to each other to try to eat, you both quickly set your silverware back down. They clatter against your dinner plates as you push them away. Even the sight of the food is too much to bear and makes your stomachs churn. You’re too down in the mouth and have lost your appetite, and your uncharacteristically low spirits are affecting Louis so deeply that his thoughts are focused solely on you and he suddenly can’t bring himself to eat either.

“Everything all right, sir?” The waiter asks as he comes by your table.

“Yes, thank you. We're not hungry. You'd better take this away.”

“Will the beautiful lady have dessert?”

“No, thank you.”

“No dessert? We have very delicious crème glacée. Vanilla, peppermint, strawberry.”

“No, thank you.”

“You bring the beautiful lady a cup of tea, and I'll just have a demitasse.”

“Yes, sir.”

Louis turns back to you once the waiter has taken your plates and left. “Do you like the clothes I put in your closet?”

“Oh. Yes, they’re beautiful.”

“Why aren’t you wearing any jewelry?”

“My jewelry is in the pawnbroker in town.”

“The jewelry in the box I gave you is yours, take what you want.”

“They have no meaning for me.” You don’t elaborate further, but you don’t need to. Your body language speaks louder than any words can. Louis knows a thing or two about women, and he can understand you perfectly. He’s found the reason for your despondency.

“The jewelry at the pawnbroker means something to you.”

In the middle of the night, after the shops have closed, Louis easily breaks the lock on the door to the pawnshop and lets himself in. It was a flimsy lock, anyway. He holds the pawnbroker at gunpoint when the man comes to investigate the noise. “Show me your jewelry.”

“Don’t hurt me, I’m an honest man.” The poor man is shaking like a leaf as he puts his hands up and cowers in the corner.

Captain Renault looks high and low in the shelves and jewelry boxes, his gun still pointed at the man’s heart. Finally, after some digging, he finds your mother’s necklace. Surprisingly, his illegal search didn’t warrant any overt destruction or damage of property for once. No broken glass or obvious signs of forced entry. “What do you want for it?”

“Nothing. Just let me live.”

He drops a small wad of banknotes on the counter and leaves quietly with your necklace in hand. The pawnbroker is allowed to live another day. He quickly gets up and grabs the crinkled bills, in shock at the amount. This is far more than the necklace is worth! So much money for a bit of brass and glass! It should be more than enough to cover the cost of replacing the broken doorknob, at least.

While you’re sitting in front of your vanity mirror and getting ready for the day, Louis walks up behind you and tells you to close your eyes. You arch your eyebrow at him, but oblige after he tells you it’s a surprise. You shiver as you feel his warm hands contrast with the cold metal against the skin of your neck as he closes the clasp. You open your eyes when he tells you to and gasp. “Mother’s necklace…I-I don’t believe it! You’ve given me a great joy. You can’t imagine what this necklace means to me. How did you find it? I thought surely…” You fiddle with the necklace as you take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Thank you very much. It’s the only thing left to me of my mother. She and father were arrested shortly after we boarded the train to Marseilles. I never saw them again. I don’t know where they are, or if they’re even alive. That’s why I’ve sworn to myself never to marry, and to work to help my sibling get their best chance at life. They have to come first, so romance just isn’t in the cards right now, but you- I want so badly to make things good again, not just for me, but for both of us.” Your eyes are downcast as you continue. “If it wasn’t for me, maybe our parents could’ve come with us, maybe they wouldn’t have been arrested. They should’ve gotten on the train with my sibling, not me.”

Louis tilts your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eye. He wants to make sure you’re paying attention because he’s never been this open with anyone before. In this moment, he leaves his heart exposed and allows himself to be emotionally vulnerable in front of you. “You’re not to blame for their fates. Your parents didn’t get left behind because of you, but for you. For their children, out of love, so that you both may live.” He speaks with such sincerity. He means every word. He’s not lying to you. There’s not a flicker of doubt in his brown eyes. They’re so lovely, dark and warm.

He can’t promise you anything, but maybe he could use his position of power and influence as the Prefect of Police to gather information on your parents? Would it make you happy to know their whereabouts and whether they’re alive or dead? Or would you rather not know? He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but he’s had a sudden change of heart and now wants to devote every waking minute to your happiness. He once believed that the heart was his least vulnerable spot, but that’s just not true anymore and it’s all because of you. He’s in love with you, even if he hasn’t outright said it yet.

You say that romance isn’t in the cards for you right now but do you think, maybe someday, you would like to reshuffle those cards? He didn’t want to do it before because he was still a selfish man who couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, but now he’s ready and willing to countersign exit visas for you and your sibling at any time. Just say the word and you could be on the next plane to Lisbon and on your way to America by tomorrow, if you wished it. Or there’s a Free French garrison over at Brazzaville. He could be induced to arrange a passage. To hell with the contract you originally drafted up, he’ll gladly throw it on the fire and watch it burn with you. But there is a different type of contract he’d be open to entering with you - a marriage contract. You’re lovers now, but would you ever entertain the thought of being husband and wife? Come what may, would you ever consider marrying him after the war is over?

[free-for-all-fics]

Part 3 of 3 of the Crossover Prompt! Here we are at the conclusion! Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! ⚕️🤍

Your love story was left incomplete, but only because it was still being written. Before Louis knew it, nearly twenty years had passed and little Johnny wasn’t so little anymore. On his eighteenth birthday, Louis knocked on his son’s bedroom door before entering. He was hiding something behind his back. He wished Johnny a happy birthday and sat down with him for a few moments before pulling John’s final letter from his breast pocket. He revealed what he was hiding when he laid the letter on top of a book of some sort. John’s journal. He handed the mementos over to their rightful owner.

“What are these?”

“Birthday gifts from your father, only to be given to you on your eighteenth birthday and no sooner. In complying with his wishes, I’ve never read them. So don’t ask me what they say because even I don’t know. They’re meant for you. They’ve always been meant for you. Only you. Go on, read them. Privacy is best for this, so I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be waiting downstairs. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll finally talk about it. About him. Just like you wanted us to when you were growing up. Take your time. As much time as you need.” With his promise to John upheld, Louis patted Johnny on the shoulder and got up, closing his son’s bedroom door as he left and went downstairs.

As Johnny sat on his bed, he stared at the leather bound journal and the envelope in his hands. There was no return address written on the letter. There wasn’t even a recipient address. There were no postage stamps. Just ‘To my child’ written in the center with ‘DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 18TH BIRTHDAY’ written underneath it in smaller, bold text. He decided to read it first and save the journal for later. He slowly sliced the letter open, not wanting to tear the paper that contained the ghost of his father. As Johnny read, his father’s voice, his thoughts, his personality bled through the pages.

14 January 1918

My dearest son or daughter,

Today is your eighteenth birthday. Congratulations. It is a custom in my family to pass on a piece of wisdom when one reaches this age. I pass it onto you as my father passed it onto me. Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all. From now on, you’ll be traveling the road between who you think you are and who you can be. The key is to allow yourself to make the journey.

I also want you to know that, although we weren’t married when we learned we were expecting you, and I wasn’t proud of our affair, I loved your mother very much and thought of her often throughout my service. As I write this letter to you, you haven’t yet been born and are still growing, safe and warm in your mother’s womb. I cannot know if you’re a boy or a girl, but I do know you will be a baby. My baby. And I will love you all the same. I already do. I’ve never seen you but, someday, in a better world, I hope I will. I write to you of that day.

Together we walk, hand in hand. We walk and we look. And some of the things we see are wonderful, and some are terrible. On a green stretch of ground are ten thousand graves, and you feel hatred welling up in your heart. This was, but it will never be again. The world has been cured since your father treated that terrible abscess on its body with iron and fire. And there were millions of healers who worked with him and made sure there would be no recurrence. Their deadly conflict was waged to decide your future. Your friends did not spare themselves and were ruthless to your foes. You are the heir of what your father and your friends won for you with their blood. From their hands, you have received the flag of happiness and freedom. My child, be the standard-bearer of the great age they have made possible. It would be too tragic if the men of goodwill should ever be lax or fail again to build a world where youth may love without fear, and where parents may grow old with their children, and where men will be worthy of each other’s faith. Good night and au revoir till our work is finished. And until I see you, remember this. France lives. England lives. Vive la France. Long live England.

Though I wanted more than anything to witness your birth and get the chance to raise you and be a father to you, God had a different plan for me. Words cannot express how much I wanted to hold you in my arms, how much I wanted to share with you, to teach you about life, about love. But I cannot. Though the good Lord called me home before I could make it home to you and your mother, I’m still with you. Even when you can’t see me, I’m here for every milestone, for every step you take in life. I’m watching as you grow up into a fine young man or woman. I never held you, but I feel you. We never spoke, but I hear you. I never knew you, but I love you. Whatever the future holds for you, I hope you live beyond your years and find absolute happiness. I hope you lead a fulfilling life and that, whenever your time comes, I’ll be there to hold your hand and lead you into God’s kingdom. May God keep you and love you as I do.

If my wishes outlined in my will were honored, you will also have in your possession my journal, where I filled the pages with my memories and my special thoughts, special thoughts on the wonderful life God blessed me with. My journal was supposed to be for you. But as I write this, I hope you'll never see it. I just want to meet you. And tell you all these stories myself. But I guess if you're reading this now...things didn't work out that way. This is where your story begins. I'm sorry I won't be there to see it. It's a lot to ask, but I don't want you to be sad that I'm gone. I want you to be amazed that any of us ever had a chance to be here at all. Good luck. Happy birthday, my darling child. All my love.

Your father

Johnny didn’t come down for a good hour or two. When he did, Louis was sitting at the kitchen table, reading something. He set it down and turned his full attention to his son as soon as he heard the wooden stairs creak. Johnny’s tall frame filled the doorway as he just stood there, John’s journal in his hand. His fingers gently leafed through the aged and slightly yellowish pages, his thumb gently rubbing over his father’s initials embossed on the inside cover. There was a birthday cake with eighteen unlit candles on the table, but the cake could wait. Johnny knew from the age of seven that he was adopted and had to keep it a secret. Louis only gave sugarcoated half-answers appropriate for a boy his age whenever he had questions about his biological parents. Whenever Johnny asked about his mother and what she was like, Louis spoke freely about Madeleine. But whenever Johnny asked about his namesake, Louis shut up like a clam and only gave vague answers, with the excuse that he’d tell him about it when he was older.

Johnny wasn’t a child anymore. He was old enough to enlist in the military. He was mature enough to understand. He still had questions and Louis still had answers. Before anything else was said, Louis apologized to his son for not telling him what he wanted to hear sooner. He let Johnny know that he always thought about telling him about John when he was a teenager, but the right moment never seemed to appear and, before he knew it, Johnny was turning eighteen tomorrow. He still had his opportunity to fulfill John’s wishes, and he didn’t want to miss it. Louis invited Johnny to sit down and talk with him, and that’s what they did. They just sat and talked. It was very difficult to talk about John, especially his death.

Louis later admitted to you that he choked up and cried throughout it. Johnny cried too. But it was better that Johnny heard the stories from him than anyone else. He was with John before he went out on his last patrol, he was with him when the Germans spotted them, and he was the last one to see John alive since he was with him when he died. Louis was the only one who could tell Johnny the truth of what happened. Or, at least, the one person who could tell him the closest thing to the truth. The rest was just hearsay and speculation. But even after learning the truth of his biological father and his death, Johnny didn’t hate his adoptive father for it. Based on his recollection of what happened, it sounded to Johnny as if Louis did everything in his power to try to save John’s life, and failed through no fault of his own. Louis took out his lighter, lit the birthday candles, and Johnny made a wish and blew them out. In keeping up with birthday superstitions, he didn’t tell Louis what he wished for out of fear it wouldn’t come true.

Renault and Stevenson fought alongside the Allies in World War I. When World War II broke out in September 1939 and the Germans occupied France in May 1940, Johnny chose to enlist in the war and joined the Allied cause. As an able-bodied, twenty-one-year-old male, he felt that he had a duty to fight for his country, and he wished to follow in his biological and adoptive fathers’ footsteps and fight on the side of the angels. Louis drifted to Casablanca in French Morocco, North Africa, where he was appointed as Prefect of Police by Vichy.

Despite its neutrality, Casablanca wasn’t the safest place. Though a neutral zone, it was far from a peaceful paradise. There were all sorts of characters there, including many activists, artists, spies, writers, etc. It was filled with refugees fleeing from war zones or fascist police states, who were then targeted by all sorts of people seeking to exploit them. Leaving for a better place wasn’t impossible, but involved a prohibitive cost that most refugees couldn’t afford, and they often impoverished themselves further by trying to win the money through gambling. Organized crime thrived and the authorities were openly corrupt, with even American entrepreneur Rick Blaine having to pay bribes to corrupt officials to keep operating. The police shot people in broad daylight and routinely rounded up large numbers of designated suspects simply for the pretense of efficiency. And all that was before the Nazis showed up and started breathing down everyone's necks.

While stationed there, he adopted a stance of bemused neutrality and was a French police chief nominally loyal to the Nazi Germans. He professed no love nor loyalty for them, and made it clear he was only working for Vichy out of self-interest. He wasn’t happy with the Nazis stomping all over his turf and offered only the merest of help. He was both unscrupulous and corrupt, and had a tendency not to take his position as Prefect of Police all that seriously. Once more he was a Captain, just in a way that was a little different from the last time he held that rank. His reputation as an apathetic, cynical, and lecherous man that he garnered during his time after serving in World War I followed him all the way to Casablanca even twenty odd years later, so Renault embraced the corruption and vice that came with his police uniform. While Johnny genuinely loved his adoptive father, he knew that Louis was neither perfect nor a saint. He was well aware of Louis’ character flaws, including his greed, dishonesty, and tendency to overindulge in women, drink, and tobacco.

Captain Renault extorted many young and attractive women for sex in exchange for exit visas, whether they were married or not. He never saw any of them again after the transaction was complete. It was always a one and done kind of a deal. He was perfectly happy to drink or screw himself to death without a care for what went on around him, believing that doing so would numb his mind enough so he’d stop thinking about you. But it didn’t work. No matter how hard he tried to shut you out and distract himself with other women, he always found himself thinking about what might’ve been. About the future you could’ve had together if life didn’t force you apart. He often found himself sitting alone in his apartment, the room only lit by a single table lamp next to him as he held a glass of brandy in one hand and his pen in the other. He wrote about you in his journal or wrote letters to you that he’d never send. God help him, he couldn’t stop.

But then, as fate would have it, you were in Casablanca at the same time he was. By the time you reunited, Captain Louis Renault was living on his own while his son was fighting overseas. Though he technically wasn’t a widower, merely the ex-husband of someone who was dead, he didn’t think it insulting that others who didn’t know him or his ex-wife very well considered him to be just that. He and Madeleine still loved one another as friends, underneath it all.

In 1937-1938 there was an outbreak of typhoid fever. Louse-borne typhus fever was a familiar by-product of wartime troop and refugee movements, crowding in camps and prisons, undernourishment, and lack of bathing and laundry facilities. While there were vaccinations available, efficient methods of preventing typhus fever in places such as Africa and Egypt hadn’t been discovered yet, and it was highly contagious there. Methods of delousing were still cumbersome, and would not prevent reinfestation. For this, a French colleague warned, you would need to find a way to apply louse powder to the inner seams of clothing without undressing the wearer. Using a hand duster, you and other medical personnel pumped the louse powder dust up sleeves and skirts, down neck openings and waistbands of patients. The air space between garment and skin allowed for the even dispersal of the powder under pressure, and the procedure was much faster. Once the populace of Casablanca discovered how effective this treatment was, they enthusiastically turned up for treatment. In fact, louse powder became a black market commodity and acquired a reputation as a cure for insomnia, since those treated were able to sleep without the distraction of the lice, often for the first time in their lives.

While the station hospitals in Casablanca weren’t as well-equipped as the ones in Europe, one of your skills as a nurse was to adapt to any situation and make do with what you had. You were accustomed to working with limited supplies and were just as vigilant in your endeavors to prevent infection and make your patients as comfortable as possible. While you understood the danger and risks of typhoid fever, you weren’t afraid. You were already vaccinated against this highly contagious disease, so you continued your work as a nurse and were constantly active in the field. Even if you did become infected, you were prepared to take the necessary precautions and even willing to sacrifice your life if it meant saving others.

Most of your patients developed miserable symptoms such as fever and diarrhea, while others were laid up in hospital for six weeks or more. Much like you were during the First World War, you were diligent about maintaining good hygiene by adhering to a strict regimen of washing your hands with soap and uncontaminated water, using only fresh and clean supplies, and sanitizing and disinfecting medical equipment and anything else that may have been touched, especially by more than one patient. But despite the best combined efforts of yourself and your coworkers, there were still patients who inevitably succumbed. As you cared for your patients and watched over them from their bedsides day in and day out, you experienced secondhand the suffering of countless men, women, and children. You thought of Louis and how you looked after him when he was your patient so long ago. You thanked God that, like you, he was vaccinated against this terrible and deadly disease. You weren’t sure if your letters were reaching him or not, but you hoped that, wherever he was, he was healthy and safe.

In France, typhoid vaccination was permitted by the Académie Nationale de Médecine from 1911 and was made compulsory by the French Army in 1914. From 1914, young soldiers in the French army were inoculated upon enrollment and that program of systematic vaccination was considered a key factor in significantly reducing the rate of typhoid deaths. It remained at least as effective against typhoid as the previous vaccine and undoubtedly offered much protection to French and British troops. While the war had demonstrated the apparent worth of vaccination, debates continued about preparation, dosage, administration, and methods of evaluating efficacy and toxicity, as well as about the best type of vaccine available. In 1921, the Académie Nationale de Médecine called for vaccination to be extended, in a limited form, to the civilian population. It was recommended only for travelers, health professionals, and those in contact with an epidemic. Some doubts were later cast on the efficacy of the wartime vaccine against the paratyphoid fevers, and there were also concerns among the public that vaccination could have harmful side effects. However, other measures such as improved hygiene and screening of convalescents also contributed to reducing levels of infection.

You were working at one of the station hospitals and spent most of your time inside of a tent. There were several rows of identical tents pitched on the sandy plot of the desert, and it was nothing short of a miracle that Louis found you again. Through sheer luck you stepped outside and Louis just so happened to be in the right place at the right time. Despite how many years passed since the last time you saw each other in the flesh, he was able to recognize you immediately. He didn’t even think about what he would say to you after so many years apart, he just began walking towards you so quickly that he nearly jogged and, when he got close enough, he called your name. Your eyes widened but you didn’t have time to do much else because your vision went blurry and you fainted. You would’ve fallen into the sand if Louis hadn’t reacted fast enough to catch you. He swooped you up into his arms and laid you down gently, your head resting in his lap as he lowered himself to his knees. As he called for help, he stroked your face, your forehead, and your hair. Had the heat of the desert gotten to you? Oh, God, what had he done? He gave you too great a shock.

“Darling! Matron, matron!”

“What’s happened?”

“She fainted. I shouldn’t have tried to surprise her.”

“She’s been working under a terrific strain.”

“The hospital work has been too much for her.”

“Oh, you’re wrong. Six months ago, I thought she was in for a nervous breakdown, but she pulled herself through wonderfully.”

“She’s not going to have to look after herself anymore.”

With permission from the matron, Louis carried you to his car and drove you to his apartment to rest and recover. When you were later roused from your fainting spell, you found yourself in his bed with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. He thought you’d be more comfortable there than on the couch. He was sitting in a chair across the room but was instantly at your side when he saw your eyelids flutter. He helped you to sit up then stand, one hand to hold yours and the other one to support your back while you walked together to the living room. You sat down on the couch.

“Tell me you’re better, and I can stop reproaching myself.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just— You stood there as if your feat was nothing, as if you didn't just walk a thousand miles to hold my hand, just in case I needed you. I did need you. I simply had no idea that I did. So, if I'm at a loss for words, I'm processing the enormity of your heart and soul, of how lucky I am to have met you.” Your eyes suddenly darted around the unfamiliar room. “Where have you brought me?”

“Home.”

“Home?”

“For now. At least until the war is over and we can go back to our house. The house that I got for you before I let myself see you. The house that I raised my boy in and where we’re going to forget that we’ve been away from each other for over twenty years.”

“Twenty years…”

“I’m annoyed with you, my dear. Here I am, lots of gray, more than my share of wrinkles, and you? You’re as young as ever. You fought off age, and refused to recognize time. You always were stubborn.” He joked and flirted with you, but then his face suddenly became somber. “Darling, do you know what Hell is? Do you? It isn’t a place where you sit on hot coals while devils torture you. It isn’t being cold or starving or afraid or dying from want of water. It isn’t watching death creep up a mountainside. It isn’t any of those things. It’s just being without you.”

In that moment, you wrapped your arms around each other as you cried together. A life of higher joys was a life with more tears of all kinds. It was said that after the storms, the sunshine returns. And crying was much the same in that moment. So you let it out, and Louis let it out too. In your shared catharsis, everything you kept locked away in your hearts for the sakes of others had finally been set free. You loved each other so much that you both wanted the same thing. You both sacrificed so much because happiness for the other was the only thing that you wanted in the whole world. That hug had woven your souls in a way that was a forever bond. You hoped that was Louis’ intention, because that bond was real. Words couldn’t describe how much you loved and sorely missed Louis’ hugs. There was the hug of gentle arms that still gave you the space to breathe. Then there was the hug of strong arms that told you everything that he was - body, brain, and soul - were all entrusted with you.

Even now, you love both. The duvets and the human shields, each has their time. His hug is stronger than anything you’ve ever known, as if holding you isn’t quite enough. Louis has to feel every ounce that you are press into every ounce that is him. In that moment of feeling each other so close you’re both awake somehow, more alive than you’ve been in so very long. As much as you yearned to break free in your youth, there are times now you are as a butterfly who yearns for the cocoon, to be safe within walls, protected. That's what you feel. It helps keep your nightmares away. So if it would be okay, if it's what Louis wants too, you want him to wrap his arms around you every chance the universe is kind enough to bring. For in this world, it’s your love that makes everything else possible.

“But I wrote you I was coming, from Berlin.”

“Did you? Well, I never received the letter.”

“Well, I guess the censors must have confiscated it. I wrote you what I thought about the Nazis.”

“The Nazis. Yes, of course. When did you arrive in Casablanca? Is anyone with you? Captain Freycinet?”

“Less than a year ago. And no, he’s still in England, working as a liaison officer. He’s in charge of a Free French garrison stationed somewhere out in the countryside. The exact location is a secret he won’t tell anyone, not even me. Most people try not to stare or ask how he lost his right eye, but for those that are brave enough to inquire about it, he likes to spin a fantastical story about how he lost it while flying a fighter plane in the First War as a pilote de chasse in Squad 26 of the Cigognes Group. Believable enough. Though he doesn’t fly anymore, he’s seen his fair share of action and knows how to handle firearms, bombs, and planes and things. He’s so knowledgeable on the subject that his stories never raise any further questions.” You took a breath. “You know, Louis… Contagions, infections, blood, wounds, amputations… They don't frighten me. But the Nazis do, so I thought maybe I'd better come here while I still had the chance. At least I can continue my work and still help people here. Did you get any of my letters? I wrote and wrote and wrote.”

“Yes, some. But they suddenly stopped coming in 1940. Then none. When the letters stopped, I feared the worst, my dear. That you fell out of love with me and found someone else, that you were married to him and had his children. Or that you died and were buried somewhere—”

You stopped his mouth with a kiss, not letting him speak any further. When his letters suddenly stopped, you were overwrought with the same fears and anxieties that he was. Had he fallen in love with another woman? Had he remarried? Was he dead? The not knowing was the worst. But now that you were together, nothing more needed to be said. Silence was the perfectest herald of joy. The next morning, duty called and you had to return to your work. Louis drove you, but he put the car in park and walked with you all the way back to the tents, not wanting to part from you just yet. You had been summoned but, just before you went inside, he stopped you for a moment.

“Wait a minute. Actually I’ve got something very important to ask you.”

“Important to me?”

“Enormously. Are you friendly with the matron?”

“I won’t be if she finds you here again.”

“Could you get leave tomorrow evening?”

“Oh, I don’t think I—”

“And dine with me?”

“I’m afraid I—”

“At Rick’s?”

“I can’t, I—”

“Could you try?”

“Now, possibly.”

“Could you try hard?”

“Possibly.”

“Very hard?”

“Possibly.”

“It’s all arranged, eight o’ clock—” Before he could speak any further, you smiled at him and shut the flaps of the tent in his face.

Louis picked you up from the hospital the next evening at eight o’clock sharp, just like he said he would. He drove you to Rick’s and, while you’d heard of it, you’d never been inside before. The lights were bright and there was a heavy scent of smoke wafting through the air that nearly made you cough. In the corner next to the stage sat a small salmon-colored piano on wheels. Louis told you that Sam, a middle-aged black man, usually played and sang on that piano while accompanied by a small orchestra. He told you that you might see him later tonight. On the floor, Corina strummed a guitar and began her number. She had a lovely voice. All about you there was the hum of voices, chatter and laughter. The occupants of the room were varied. There were Europeans in their dinner jackets, their women beautifully begowned and bejeweled. There were Moroccans in silk robes. Turks wearing fezzes. Levantines. Naval officers. Members of the Foreign Legion, distinguished by their kepis. When Louis told you that everybody came to Rick’s, you thought it was just an expression of speech, that he was exaggerating. He wasn’t. It was almost too much for you to handle. There was so much activity at the various tables, and it took you a while to find one that was empty.

“Apéritifs will be in, or would you prefer a cocktail?”

Louis suggested a bottle of Veuve Clicquot ‘26, a good French wine, according to him. But if you weren’t feeling like wine, he could ask the croupier, Emil, to bring a bottle of the best champagne and put it on his bill. You tried to insist on at least splitting the cost, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Louis explained to you that he usually liked to play a little game, where they put it on the bill and he tore the bill up. It was very convenient. But that night was a very special occasion, a celebration, so he wanted to spoil you and treat you to a romantic night out. You raised a toast to love and clinked your glasses together. It was funny how so many years had passed yet, once you were together again, it felt as if no time passed between you at all. While you wined and dined at Rick’s, you picked up right from where you left off and talked about anything and everything. You went on dates whenever your work schedules allowed. Rick’s became one of your usual haunts, along with some secret spots around the city. On one of your dates, you thought the evening was coming to a close. But then…

“Darling, there’s going to be some excitement here tonight. We are going to be making an arrest right here, in Rick’s Café.”

“What, again?” From what Louis told you, he and his administration making arrests in Rick’s place was a fairly common occurrence, at least common enough to seem like part of a mundane routine and somewhat annoy Rick.

“This is no ordinary arrest. A murderer, no less.”

Your eyes reacted. Involuntarily, they glanced around, as if trying to scope out which of the many, many, many customers it could’ve possibly been. Louis caught your look.

“If you are thinking of warning him, don’t put yourself out. He cannot possibly escape. You know, darling, we could have made this arrest earlier, in the evening at the Blue Parrot, but out of my high regard for Rick, we are staging it here. It will amuse his customers.”

“I think their entertainment is enough, dear.”

“Darling, I feel I should warn you that we are to have an important guest tonight. Major Strasser of the Third Reich, no less. We want him to be here when we make the arrest. A little demonstration of the efficiency of my administration.”

You didn’t bother to hide your distaste for the Nazis in front of Louis. It was pretty clear to you that, like you, he had no love for the Nazis and never went all that far out of his way to help them out. He agreed to do whatever would help maintain his cushy position and was fine with his normally extremely controversial behavior of opportunism, but only out of self-interest. He nonchalantly told you so himself that he had no conviction, he often blew with the wind and the prevailing wind happened to be from Vichy. You told Louis that you’d exchange pleasantries with Major Strasser in your native German tongue and outwardly act cordial to him to spare yourselves any embarrassment or trouble, but only if you absolutely had to. If he stopped by your table to talk to either you or Louis, or if it otherwise couldn’t be avoided, you’d smile and give him a warm welcome. You reflected wryly on your early life. You supposed you had Frederick to thank for your years of acting experience.

“I see. And what’s Strasser doing here? He certainly didn’t come all the way to Casablanca to witness a demonstration of your efficiency.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Louis, you’ve got something on your mind. Why don’t you spill it?”

“How observant you are. As a matter of fact, there is a man who’s arrived in Casablanca on his way to America. He will offer a fortune to anyone who will furnish him with an exit visa.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Victor Laszlo.”

“Victor Laszlo?”

Louis watched your expression. “Darling, that is the first time I have ever seen you so impressed.”

“Well, he’s succeeded in impressing half the world.”

“It is my duty to see that he doesn’t impress the other half. Darling, Laszlo must never reach America. He stays in Casablanca.”

“It’ll be interesting to see how he manages.”

“Manages what?”

“His escape.”

“Oh, but I just told you—”

“—Stop it. He escaped from a concentration camp and the Nazis have been chasing him all over Europe.”

“This is the end of the chase.”

“I’m willing to bet that it isn’t.”

“Is that a serious offer? Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. There is no exit visa for him.”

“Maybe. Well, it seems you are determined to keep Laszlo here.”

“I have my orders.”

“Oh, I see. Gestapo speak.”

“My dear, you underestimate the influence of the Gestapo. I don’t interfere with them, and they don’t interfere with me. In Casablanca I am master of my fate. I am captain of my—”

He stopped short as his aide, Lieutenant Casselle, entered.

“—Major Strasser is here, sir.”

“Yeah, you were saying?”

Having been summoned, he hurriedly excused himself and got up from the table during your dinner date. He kissed your hand, telling you he’d be right back, he was just going to flatter his Nazi superior a little for his own sake. He hurried away to kowtow to Major Strasser and you smiled cynically.

“Carl, see that Major Strasser gets a good table, one close to the ladies.”

“I have already given him the best, knowing he is German and would take it anyway.”

Louis walked over to one of his officers. “Take him quietly. Two guards at every door.”

“Yes, sir. Everything is ready, sir.” The officer saluted and went off to speak to the guards.

You watched Louis and the Nazis from the corner of your eye, not wanting to make it too obvious you were paying attention to them. You could describe Major Strasser as a tall, middle-aged, pale German with a smile that seemed more the result of a frozen face muscle than a cheerful disposition. On any occasion when Major Strasser was crossed, his expression probably hardened into iron.

Louis walked over to Strasser’s table. “Good evening, gentlemen.“

“Good evening, Captain.”

“Won’t you join us?”

Louis sat down. “Thank you. It is a pleasure to have you here, Major.”

Strasser turned to the waiter. “Champagne and a ton of caviar.”

“May I recommend Veuve Cliquot ‘26, a good French wine.”

“Thank you.”

“Very well, sir.”

“A very interesting club.”

“Especially so tonight, Major. In a few minutes you will see the arrest of the man who murdered your couriers.”

“I expect no less, Captain.”

The gendarmes followed Ugarte to the cashier window as he cashed in his chips. Two more guards stationed themselves at the door in case there was trouble. Ugarte started to walk out, followed by the gendarmes. When he reached the doorway he suddenly rushed through and slammed the door behind himself. By the time the gendarmes managed to get the door open again, Ugarte had pulled a gun. He fired four shots from the doorway in his attempt to evade arrest and run away from Rick’s Café Américain. The shots brought on pandemonium in the café. His desperate attempt at escape was futile. As Ugarte ran through the hallway, he grabbed Rick, begged him to stop them, to do something. But Rick stood impassively as the guards and gendarmes rushed in and grabbed him. They dragged him away.

Strasser witnessed the whole event. “Excellent, Captain.”

Rick came to the middle of the floor. An air of tense expectancy pervaded the room. A few customers were on the point of leaving. Rick spoke in a very calm voice. “I’m sorry there was a disturbance, folks, but it’s all over now. Everything’s all right. Just sit down and—”

Rick was cut off by the voices of customers overlapping each other in a discordant cacophony of panicked yelling, screaming, and unclear directions. Everyone turned to look at what was causing the commotion and Rick quickly made his way over. Louis was just about to sit down at the table with Major Strasser and Herr Heinz, but the sudden noise nearly startled him and made him knock his chair over. He was so far away that what the panicked customers were saying was unintelligible. He couldn’t make any of it out. He gave a rushed bow and left Major Strasser and Herr Heinz at their table. As he got closer, he could hear customers exclaim,

“Someone call a doctor!”

“Turn her on her left side!”

“She’s been shot by that madman!”

“I’ll call the ambulance!”

“Give me the napkins!”

“Put pressure on it! Stem the bleeding!”

Sam’s familiar voice stood out amongst the noise. “Keep her warm! Take my coat!”

“Will she be all right?”

“We must get her to hospital as quickly as we can.”

“Should I get some water?”

“No! No water! Just keep her steady until the ambulance arrives.”

Some customers were on their knees, hysterically crying. Others were praying. Louis approached the gathered crowd of bystanders and demanded they back up and give whoever it was lying on the floor room to breathe. They did just that and parted, clearing a path so he could see just who it was that was splayed out on the floor. He was horrified that it was you, pressing cream-colored cloth napkins to your side and lying in a small puddle of your blood. Louis nearly cried out when he saw you covered with blood. Your table was so close to the front doors that you were in range when Ugarte fired those four shots in his futile attempt at escape. Classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone around you except for Rick and Louis immediately went white and looked as if they were seeing a corpse or a ghost. Some of them looked to be on the verge of fainting and you wondered if Rick and his staff would have to rush the smelling salts. If you could’ve, you would’ve laughed. But laughing hurt like the devil. You were the one who was shot, but since you were a nurse with decades of experience, you were the most knowledgeable and least panicked person there. You were calm, you were still. You kept your breathing even and told Louis, Sam, and Rick exactly what to do until the ambulance arrived.

“We gotta stop the bleeding, Louis. Help Sam apply enough pressure.”

Sam’s jacket was wrapped around you like a blanket while he and Louis pressed the cloth napkins tightly against your wound. With their combined strength, it was enough to stop you from losing too much blood and going into shock.

“Is she gonna die?” A worried customer asked.

“Not today.” Captain Renault’s voice was firm. Final.

When the ambulance arrived and drove up to the incident site, Louis carefully picked you up and carried your moaning form to the ambulance with the help of Lieutenant Casselle. The paramedics opened the ambulance door and they placed you inside. Louis insisted on riding along with you and, together, you raced off towards the hospital. He held your hand and talked to you during the entire ride to the hospital while the paramedics worked to keep you stable. Louis knew next to nothing about this sort of stuff. Medicine and the human body was your field of expertise, not his. But you didn’t black out or lose consciousness for even a minute, so that had to be a good sign, right? The car careened to a halt and the paramedics carried you from the car until a gurney was wheeled outside to meet you. You were placed on the gurney and hustled into the hospital for emergency surgery. Rick followed closely behind in his car, and he and Louis both ran into the building while Sam followed, but an orderly stopped Sam at the door.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait outside. No coloreds allowed.”

Sam watched Rick, Louis, and you vanish into the hospital. He walked around to a low wall and sat, his hands still covered with blood. A while later, Sam still waited. Rick and Louis exited the hospital and sat beside him. Louis sat a short distance away from them, his hands clasped together and his thumbs pressed against his forehead, just muttering to himself the entire time,

“Make it okay…make it okay. You can do whatever you want with me, but just make it okay, please. Oh, God, you will not take her. If you have taken her, you will give her back. Give her back... Give her back, please. Please.”

“Amen.” Sam said.

Casselle could take over for Renault and handle any work until further notice. He just had to make sure you would be okay, that you would live. He just got you back. You and he overcame every obstacle and wrench life threw at you through the skin of your teeth. You survived an entire World War together and were wading through the worst of the Second one. If he were to lose you right then and there to a stray bullet…after so many years of fighting tooth and nail for your love…No. He couldn’t bear to think such things. He had attended too many funerals in his lifetime already. He had only just recently made an impromptu trip across Europe to attend the most recent one. The memory of the services was still so fresh in his mind, so vivid. A bunch of men from Johnny’s regiment were gathered around, a soldier was playing “Taps.” Men in their army hats were standing at attention. He was praying over the grave. The epitaph, so lovingly engraved in the stone, read:

HERE LIES

JOHN “JOHNNY” RENAULT

1918-1942

SO LONG OLD PAL

When you were transferred to a hospital room to recuperate, he visited you every single day until you were deemed well enough to go home. Even though you slept most of the time and didn’t talk very much, he still kept you company. Following your discharge, he drove you to his apartment. He took it upon himself to look after you and tended to all of your needs while you convalesced at home. He did just what the nurses told him to and more. The nurses gave him written instructions and told him exactly what to do and showed him how to do it. He needed to periodically clean and re-bandage the wound to make sure it didn’t become infected. He had to be very careful not to disturb or reopen your stitches. He had to administer your prescribed pain relievers and other medications. He had to make sure you were getting plenty of fluids and only eating soft foods until you healed. Louis was a man of many skills and talents, but cooking wasn’t one of them. He was little more than helpless when it came to the arts of the kitchen. Rick didn’t usually give away free meals, not even to Louis. He would’ve received no benefit from doing so, as it would’ve been an egregious expense to compensate all that food. But considering the circumstances, Rick made an exception for you since it was an emergency. Maybe he felt guilty or partially at fault for Ugarte shooting you since it happened in his place, but whatever the case, Louis was so grateful to him. Thank God he had a friend like Rick Blaine.

When Louis brought you that first care package, he told you it was from Rick and on the house. As he helped you sit up so you could eat, you thought back to Ugarte’s arrest. Yes, Rick let Ugarte get dragged away by the authorities to his death, asserting that he “stuck his neck out for no one.” However, his face clearly showed a moment of sympathy for Ugarte before the tough veneer reasserted itself. He slipped up for only a second or two, but you saw it. Your ears were ringing a bit, but you could still hear. The line sounded more to you like it was part of a facade, something Rick said as more of an effort to convince himself of a lie he told himself and justify his seeming coldness. Like Louis, you didn’t believe that Rick was as heartless as he claimed. You suspected that, under that cynical shell, he was, at heart, a sentimentalist. Him being so willing to bag up food for Louis to bring to you, despite the profit losses he incurred from doing it, only cemented what you and Louis already knew to be true. Louis flirted with you and teased you, wanting to make you smile while you were laid up in bed most days.

“Do you remember, darling, how you had to take my clothes off in order to see the full area of my leg fracture? You told me, ‘I may even have to cut them with scissors.’ And I said, ‘Go ahead. They’ll need to be mended anyway, if they’re even salvageable.’ As you cut away at my pant leg, your soft hands brushed against my skin as you worked your way up from my ankle to my thigh. You got dangerously close to my—”

“I pulled the curtains surrounding your bed so you could have some privacy. My priorities as a nurse were to ensure my patients’ needs were met and that I was doing everything I could to keep them as comfortable as possible. Part of that meant making sure their dignity was kept intact.”

“I was a little loopy and acted so silly from the pain killers they had me on. Those drugs loosened my lips and I said so many naughty, dirty things to you. I wasn’t even fully aware of what I was saying! I couldn’t remember a thing about it, so I could only imagine it was the filthiest of fantasies! All I knew was that there was a beautiful woman inches away from me and I was tantalizingly titillated. But, whether or not I was lucid, I still tried to flirt with you and ask you out on dates.”

“I told you that I’d think about it. I told you to ask me again when you’d been discharged. I thought you’d just fall back asleep and forget everything, so it just seemed easier to play along for the time being.”

“But I didn’t forget. Once I was back on my feet, I cornered you in that supply closet and asked you about that date that you promised me. And then we got up to such mischief in there, didn’t we, darling?”

He planned to ask you to move in with him in a much more romantic manner. He really did. He wanted to take you out to dinner and then take you for a nice drive in his car. He’d park in his favorite spot on the outskirts of the city, away from all the neon lights and the noise. Alone together, your faces glowing in the moonlight, that was when he would’ve asked you not just to move in with him, but the big question. But when he saw you lying there, in a pool of your own blood… You were a nurse. A nurse who saved so many lives throughout your career. You were in the thick of wars, epidemics… You brushed hands with death every single day. It came with the territory. You knew that. And Louis knew that. He read about it in your letters. But knowing about something from reading about it and knowing about something from actually witnessing it were two very different experiences. Never before had he seen with his own eyes just how close you came to dying...until it happened. Time froze. The ten or so minutes in which it took the ambulance to arrive seemed to stretch on for hours and hours and hours as he became hyperaware of your own vulnerability. You were the strongest woman he knew, but you were still human. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, even you weren’t impervious to weapons. You could still bleed. And that which could bleed could die.

It wasn’t long after you recovered that you filed your civil marriage application. Usually it took at least two months for applications to go through and get approved, but neither you nor Louis wanted to wait a moment longer. He was able to pull some strings within his administration, and your wedding was held in the Palais de Justice on a Saturday afternoon. You didn’t need all the trimmings that usually came with a traditional wedding. You were married by a Justice of the Peace who was a bookmaker on the side. The judge wanted ten thousand francs for the marriage license. While Louis was a poor, corrupt official, he paid the price because he wanted more than anything to be married to you…and he knew he could win it all back at Rick’s after a few fixed games of roulette, so the monetary loss was only temporary. You held hands, a few words were said, you shared a kiss, signed a piece of paper, and…that was it. You were finally Mr. and Mrs. Renault, officially. You had your wedding breakfast at a coffeeshop. It was a cheap and imperfect affair, but that made it all the more genuine. It was the most romantic wedding you could’ve ever asked for because it was yours and Louis’ wedding. It was a perfect reflection of yourselves, rough around the edges and all. You didn’t have to get married in style to be happy. All you needed was him.

He didn’t have a ring to give you at the time of your wedding but, during a quiet evening at home sometime later, he took your hand in his. His other hand was clenched in a fist, as if he was holding something that he didn’t want you to see just yet. He kneeled down in front of you.

“It Isn't much, darling. I'll get you a better one... But I wanted you to have this for now.” He held his hand palm up and slowly uncurled his fingers, showing you his offering. It was a ring.

“Oh, Louis.”

“It's from one of my watch chains.”

“Oh, it's lovely.”

“I... I looked at the rings they were selling in the Arab market, but I, uh... I just couldn't find one I...”

“Oh, no, Louis. It's lovely. You made it. I'll treasure it always. You put it on my finger.” You held out your hand, and he slipped the ring onto its rightful place. “It fits,” you laughed, overcome with the joy only a new bride could feel. Louis sighed a breath of relief at that. He used his smallest finger to gauge the measurement since he didn’t know your size. He was worried that it’d be too big.

Even though he saved up the money to gift you another ring with an actual gemstone in it for one of your wedding anniversaries, you still wear that first ring he gave you on your finger right next to the sparkling gem. You’ll treasure it always.

While you weren’t the first woman Captain Renault slept with, he wanted you to be the last. Now that he had you in his arms again, no longer would his eyes wander to another. No longer would his body want or crave for another. Wrapped in each other’s embrace, you were like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. The emotional reunion was told in the soul connection of your eyes, in the sweet touch of your hands, in the strength of such a long anticipated hug. For in that moment was the sweet release, the relief, the chance for joy. Before you could draw in the air your body needed, you melted into his form. You could feel his firm torso and the heart that beat within. His hands were folded around your back, drawing you in closer. You could feel your body shake, crying for the missed time neither of you would ever make back, crying to release the tension of those many, long years. Louis pulled his head back and wiped away your stray tears with a calloused finger. Even his roughness brought more relief than your heart could hold.

He was eating you with his eyes, running his hand through your hair, as if he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t part of an almost forgotten dream. When he kissed you it was sweet, gentle, and it tasted of your tears. You wanted to speak but all you could manage was a croak, a plea for him not to go again. Never again. His mouth painted a soft smile and he nodded once before folding you in his arms again. His love for you was a kind of insanity. He deserved happiness so much. He’d been through such misery. You both had. But after many years of endurance and trials, you were, at last, free to be together. The emotion of your reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in your soul. You grabbed your camera and took a photograph of yourselves together in that apartment. An intimate snap of you lying underneath the covers of the bed and wrapped in each other’s arms, your hair messy, skin sweaty, but your eyes closed in contentment. In what may or may not come as a shock to your daughter, your wedding night wasn’t the first time you slept together.

“You may find the climate of Casablanca a trifle warm,” Louis had said to you. You believed yourselves to be well-adapted to the climate. But then there came a day that started out like any other, with a warm gentle breeze. Too warm, in fact. The sun shone brightly and relentlessly beat down on you. An unprecedented heatwave had hit Casablanca. You and Louis were in your shared apartment and desperately looking for a way to cool off. But, when you tried to leave, the door wouldn’t open. The heat caused the wood to expand and swell against the floor, meaning the door became stuck. It was so hard to open that it was nearly impossible. And your apartment was too high up, so escaping out the window wasn’t an option either. You were desperate for a reprieve from the heat, but not desperate enough to try to scale down the wall. Back in those days, there were no fire escapes installed outside. You were both left trapped along with the temperature gradually creeping up higher. You had plenty of water to last through the night, but soon you were both annoyed at your clothes. God, why were there so many layers? They felt too thick and stuffy, and were clinging to your sweaty skin. You weren’t married yet, but to hell with propriety! You both decided to strip down, but to make it fun and take your mind off your predicament, you played a game of strip poker. Louis was wearing one of his uniforms, but you were only wearing a romper. You were also bad at poker. Whoops! You shared a bath or shower together in the hopes that soaking in the water would help, and at some point in the night you both fell asleep.

The darkness felt like grasping claws, but also like a warm, enveloping hug. You were in a cold room, under a warm blanket, with a cold book next to you, and a warm friend laying on top of you. You suddenly woke up in a cold sweat, immediately snapped out of your blissful, dreamlike state. Louis was laying on his stomach, sprawled halfway on top of you with his arm laid over your chest. You were both naked. All the blankets and sheets had been kicked off the bed and discarded in a pile next to your discarded clothes on the floor. You could still feel your sweat dried on your skin. It was sticky and warm. How ironic that you wanted to cool off and instead partook in an activity that only guaranteed you’d both work up even more of a sweat. It looked like you’d need to take another bath or shower, and you knew that Louis would want to join you again. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

You could feel his breath on your face as he snored lightly. Oh, God. It wasn’t a fever dream. You really slept with Louis last night. You knew it wouldn’t just be a one time thing. But you were too hungry to think on it right then. When you threw on Louis’ shirt and got up to make breakfast, he made it difficult to get out of bed, doing his best to hold you in place while still half-asleep. He later woke up to the smell of food and stumbled into the kitchen wearing nothing but his high-waisted boxer shorts, complaining to you about the bed being cold without you there. Funny, the day before you both were complaining about the heat and, the very next day, you were missing each other’s warmth. Louis told you to leave it, breakfast could wait. He was hungry for something else. You just had time to turn off the stove before he swooped you up into his arms and carried you bridal style back to the bedroom. God, he was insatiable. But you couldn’t blame him. After a lifetime of waiting, you were just as insatiable as he was. Why should either of you have waited until you were legally wed to go to bed? You already loved each other as a married couple should. You wouldn’t deny each other what you wanted because of some arbitrary rule.

“Hello, darling! I didn’t hear you come in. Why, you look tired. Did you finish your errand?”

“Yes. Now come on, you’ve only just about time to dress.”

“Louis, would you mind very much if we didn’t go out tonight? If we just stayed here and talked?”

“But I reserved a corner table at Rick’s.”

“Could you cancel it?”

“No. I’m afraid not, darling.”

“Why? What’s happened? Louis, you look flushed, like you’ve been run ragged. And you sound winded. Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I’m all right.”

“Darling, I’m worried about you.”

“I’ve just been thinking that, with our marriage and all, don’t you think a little celebration is in order? We’re still newlyweds, but we never did go on a honeymoon. You ought to get away—” your husband stammered and quickly corrected himself, “we both should, from this whole environment. Now, here’s what I’ve prescribed.” He pulled out documents from his pants pocket.

“Letters of transit.”

“The last plane to Lisbon already left, but there’s Brazzaville. I can provide a passage. It’s beautiful there this time of year. But we must hurry. Please, go get dressed, sweetheart. I’ll even pack the bags while you’re getting ready.” He got up from the couch with a reassuring pat on your arm and went into your bedroom to pack essentials for you.

“Pack? What— Louis, hold on.” You turned to follow him through your apartment. “What are you talking about?”

Louis walked over to your closet where you usually kept a suitcase and, thankfully, it was there. He grabbed it and made his way to your shared bedroom. “Darling, can you get your spare duffle bag for me? I'm afraid this one suitcase won't have enough space. I'm not sure how long we'll be gone for, but I imagine it’ll be at least until the war is over.”

“Wait, slow down a minute! You can't just come home and expect me to go away with you in ten minutes flat without an explanation! Louis, stop!” You were surprised when he actually stopped packing and looked at you. You could see the barely concealed fear in his eyes as they darted back and forth. He was running from something, something that scared him. “What’s really going on? Why are you so jittery and want to leave all of the sudden? What did you do?” You asked. You had time to ask questions, but there was no time for Louis to give you any answers.

He sighed and placed his hands on your shoulders. “We can talk about this later. You can be mad at me for as long as you need to be but, for now, I need to get you out of this city.”

“Why? Are there people after you? What's—”

“Please, my love. We don't have much time. We’ll eventually return home once the war is over and France has healed. We won’t be living like nomads forever. I just...” He closed his eyes and took a much needed breath, “I just need to know that you’re safe and away from harm. I have this horrible sinking feeling that something is going to happen. Something terrible and irreversible. And when it does, Casablanca won’t remain neutral for much longer. We won’t be safe if we remain here. We must leave while we still can.”

“You’re asking me to pack up my entire life and leave with you. And I will, but I need to make sure that I’ll— that we’ll have a life to come back to after the war is over. I had to rebuild my life from scratch once before. I don’t think I can do it again.” You argued with him and glared at him, but you felt your resolve weakening. You let out a short, exasperated sigh. “I'm going to need you to promise me you’ll give me an explanation. You at least owe me that.”

“Of course, my dear. I promise I’ll explain on the way, once we’re safely out of Casablanca. No details will be left out,” Louis conceded. “Now hurry and help me pack your things. We can only bring the essentials. Where are your car keys?”

Louis upheld his promise to you and filled in the blanks for you at a later time. Rick was in love with a woman named Ilsa Lund, but he could see quite well how she adored her husband, Victor Laszlo, wanted by the Nazis for escaping from a concentration camp. As Rick had the letters of transit, he was ultimately the only one who could make the decision. All of the above considered, he could abandon Victor, take Ilsa away, and everyone would get something they wanted, at the sacrifice of Victor's life and his fight against the Nazis. Louis thought that he was arresting Victor Laszlo with the cooperation of his American friend, but suddenly his smile faded. In Rick's hand was a gun, which he leveled at him and pointed straight at his heart.

“—Not so fast, Louis. Nobody’s going to be arrested. Not for a while yet.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I have. Sit down over there.”

“Put that gun down.”

“Louis, I wouldn’t like to shoot you, but I will, if you take one more step.”

Louis halted for a moment and studied Rick. From the look in his eyes, Louis knew he wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if he had to. So the saying was true then. People do crazy things when they’re in love.

“Under the circumstances, I will sit down.”

“Keep your hands on the table.”

“I suppose you know what you’re doing, but I wonder if you realize what this means?”

“I do. We’ve got plenty of time to discuss that later.”

“Call off your watchdogs you said. Rick, I can save considerable time, I think, by telling you immediately that I could never accept your proposition.”

“You haven't heard my proposition yet.”

“You have your letters of transit. Now you want your girl. Why else would you risk coming back? I cannot do it.”

“It's even better than that. An even trade, the letters for the girl. I’ll even let you keep your ten thousand francs.”

“You're really in love with her, aren't you?”

“After what she did? I got her into this, and I have to get her out. That's all. Anyway, stick to the point. Yes or no?”

“Hm. It appeals to me, yes. It would make a hero of me in the eyes of the Allied Forces. It would distress Strasser.” He smirked for a moment as he thought about it, but then his smirk fell as he thought about it some more. “No, Rick. I'm afraid I cannot buck the law. My superiors have very definite ideas on that matter and any violation of neutrality would reflect on me.”

“Look, let me buck the law. You stay charming. One thing at a time.”

“I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Just the same, you call the airport and let me hear you tell them.”

Renault picked up the phone. “That would be very amusing.”

“And remember this gun’s pointed right at your heart.”

“That is my least vulnerable spot.” He dialed and spoke into the receiver, “Hello, is this the airport? This is Captain Renault speaking. There’ll be two letters of transit for the Lisbon plane. There’s to be no trouble about them. Good.”

The entire airport was surrounded by a heavy fog. The outline of the transport plane was barely visible as it was being readied on the airfield. A uniformed orderly used a telephone near the hangar door, but he hung up and moved to a car that had just pulled up outside the hangar. Captain Renault got out while the orderly stood at attention. He was closely followed by Rick, whose right hand was nestled in the pocket of his trench coat, covering Renault with a gun. Laszlo and Ilsa emerged from the rear of the car. Following Renault’s order, the orderly escorted Laszlo off in the direction of the plane. Rick took the letters of transit out of his pocket and handed them to Louis, who turned and walked toward the hangar. He forced Louis to countersign the letters of transit.

“If you don't mind, you fill in the names. That will make it even more official.”

“You think of everything, don't you?”

When Laszlo returned, Rick walked into the hangar and Renault handed him the letters. He walked back out to Laszlo. On the airfield the airplane engine turned over and the propellers started turning. They all turned to see the plane readying for take-off. Rick watched as Ilsa and Laszlo walked very deliberately towards the plane and put a cigarette in his mouth.

“Anyway, thanks for helping me out.”

“I suppose you know this isn’t going to be pleasant for either of us.”

“We’ll cross that bridge as soon as the plane goes, Louis.”

The door to the plane was closed by an attendant and it slowly taxied down the field, its wheels rolling down the brightly lit tarmac, getting ready to blow Casablanca a goodbye kiss with a small and joyous bounce.

Suddenly a speeding car came to a stop outside the hangar. Major Strasser drove at break-neck speed towards the airport, honking his horn furiously. Somehow he intercepted the phone call that Captain Renault made to the airport and learned of their plans. He arrived just as the aircraft started down the runway, with Ilsa and Victor Laszlo on board. Strasser alit from the car and ran toward Renault. “What is the meaning of this?”

Renault nodded toward the field. “Victor Laszlo is on that plane.”

Strasser turned back to Renault with an incredulous stare. “Why do you stand there? Why don’t you stop him?”

“Ask Monsieur Rick. Personally, I decided to relax. You can see that our friend is somewhat overwrought.”

Strasser glared at him in such a way it would’ve sent a weaker man to an early grave.

Renault only shrugged. “Well, forgive my lack of courage, but there was a gun at my head. Speaking for myself, I have an enormous antipathy to dying.”

Strasser stopped in his tracks, looked at Rick, and saw that he was armed. He then made a step towards the telephone just inside the hangar door, though Rick told him not to even think about trying it and to get away from the phone. Strasser’s voice was as cold as steel as he warned Rick not to interfere. But Rick wasn’t afraid. He warned Strasser that he was willing to shoot Captain Renault, and he was willing to shoot him too. Strasser watched the plane in agony. His eyes darted towards the telephone, as if weighing his chances. He ran towards it and desperately grabbed the receiver to call for reinforcements. Rick warned him one final time and told him to put the phone down, but Strasser wouldn’t listen. Instead, with one hand holding the receiver and the other reaching for his own gun, he picked up the payphone and shot quickly at Rick. His shot was a little wild and the bullet missed its mark. Rick, in turn, shot him dead. Both he and Louis watched as he crumpled to the ground.

At the sound of an approaching car both men turned. A police car sped in and came to a stop near Captain Renault. When four more gendarmes hurriedly jumped out mere seconds after Strasser’s death, Rick thought he’d be arrested for murder then and there. Strasser's death was clearly caused by either him or Louis. The gendarmes ran to their Captain, the first one hurriedly saluting him. In the distance the plane turned onto the runway, getting close to being ready for takeoff. Louis figured that his law enforcement career was up in smoke and there was no point to turning Rick in. When it came time to make a stand, Louis’ conscience came through in the end and he effectively condemned himself to death to do the right thing. So he said,

“Major Strasser has been shot.” A beat passed, as Louis paused to look at Rick.

Rick returned Louis’ gaze with expressionless eyes.

“…Round up the usual suspects.”

“Oui, mon Capitaine.”

The Captain’s lie was obvious either way, and his subordinates could’ve turned them both in for a promotion - something that no doubt influenced their mutual decision to skip town. But Instead, the gendarmes saluted, carried Strasser’s body away, and drove off. Louis walked inside the hangar, picked up a bottle of Vichy water, and opened it. As he poured the water into a glass, he saw the Vichy label and quickly dropped the bottle into a trash basket which he then kicked over. He walked over and stood beside Rick. Before the plane left, Strasser was dead and Louis was sympathetic. The realization that he wasn’t truly master of his fate, at least as long as the Nazis had anything to say about it, might have been what motivated his sudden change of heart. There were quite a few close calls that were dodged by a hair throughout the whole ordeal. And even afterwards, there was quite a bit of tension up until the last minute about whether the plane would be allowed to leave Casablanca or not.

From the night came a sound as if thunder could be stretched. So Rick and Louis tilted their heads upward, seeking lights that flashed, the red and white in the deepest of black skies. For a moment they were still, feeling the cool air, breathing in a steady rhythm. Then there they were, those crazy passing stars, flying high, ever onward. They both watched the plane, maintaining their gaze until it disappeared into the clouds. Victor and Ilsa escaped together, and the couple could carry on the fight. They slowly walked away from the hangar toward the runway. They made plans to run off to join the Free French garrison in Brazzaville, but all Louis could think about was you.

In that moment, he was faced with a choice between abandoning you or charging back into what could very well have been hostile enemy territory, all to rescue you. The choice had already been made for him. He didn’t even have to think about it. He told Rick that, before they could walk off into the fog and an uncertain future together, there was something he had to do first. He had to go back home, for you. You were his love, his wife. Even before you were married and carried his name, you were just as much a part of his family as Johnny was. Before his son had ever been born, you had already proven through your unwavering love, loyalty, and commitment towards him that you were a Renault through and through. No matter what happened, no matter how long you were apart, no matter how bleak your situation seemed, you never once gave up on him or on your love. Even if it got him arrested or killed, he had to at least try to get you out. What kind of husband would he be if he didn’t? A selfish and monstrous one, just like Frederick Lannington.

Taking either Strasser’s car or the one that he and Rick arrived in wasn’t an option, as either one would’ve been recognized immediately and likely shot at on sight once the Germans saw the cooling corpse of one of their former superiors. They’d be able to put two and two together. Louis knew that going the entire journey on foot wouldn’t be easy and that he would have to be quick and quiet the entire time. But you were so much to him more than just his wife. You were his best friend, his better half, his partner in everything. You were someone who would either ride with him or die with him. And he loved you more than life itself. He couldn’t just leave you behind. He had an enormous antipathy to dying, yes, but he wasn’t that callous or cowardly. To anyone else but himself, the mission would’ve sounded suicidal. But he made it out of a suicidal mission, alive, once before, against all odds. People do crazy things when they’re in love. Louis told Rick to go ahead without him and that you would both meet him later if everything went according to plan and he was able to retrieve you and your car. But in case something went wrong and he didn’t make it to their meeting point within a certain timeframe, he asked Rick to proceed as if he was presumed dead and to take good care of you in his stead. If only one of you made it out of Casablanca alive, Louis wanted it to be you.

The fog came as softest white to embrace all, to make it a cocoon until the heat of the desert would return and the colors of nature would be ready to flutter once more. In the fog the city was blurred like an old painting. It could be a great work drawn by an expert hand. The buildings were silhouetted black, two-dimensional. The streets yawned in every direction with only the old newspaper dispensers and street-lamps to break the view between buildings so high that the tops disappeared in the swirling white. Going back for you reminded him of when he went back for John. He felt like a youngish man again, filled with adrenaline as he entered enemy territory. The flashbacks were so vivid, blurring the lines between the past and the present almost seamlessly as visions played out in front of him. His regiment’s occupation was entering its sixth week and the food supplies were running low. Tom was supposed to bring a sack of MREs he'd pilfered from the base camp. Hardly cordon bleu cooking, but it would have filled his stomach and those of his men. He couldn't smell anything through his gas mask. His comrades thought he was paranoid since he wore it 24/7 unless he needed to eat or drink and, even then, he did so quickly. People began to laugh at nothing at all, then become scared of nothing at all then, as the gas being pumped in became more dense, the air was tinged with green. Louis’ footsteps echoed like stones off a cave wall. He wanted to melt into the darkness but what was the point? That place had been abandoned long ago. He had the only beating heart in many square miles of concrete.

The air didn’t smell right at all. Louis swore he could feel his eyes stinging and becoming bleary. His throat felt like it was closing up as he coughed and tried to suck in some much needed breaths. What felt like gas permeating the air and suffocating him to death in fact smelled of nothing but just kicked up sand and tobacco smoke. Without the fumes of traffic its odor was fresh. The bright lights of the city flooded his vision with white and nearly rendered him blind, like the artillery shell blast. He felt like he was being watched even when he wasn’t. By the Germans? The Russians? He wasn’t sure. They were just shadows, echos of the past, and he couldn’t distinguish between them. Whenever he took cover underneath an awning, he felt like he was going to get crushed with falling debris from above if he didn’t hurry. He kept going. He had to keep going.

Once he got back to the barracks, everything would be okay. He and John would be safe. You would be safe. Just a little farther. He was almost there. Almost back at the barracks. Back at the base camp. Back to the home base. Home? Yes, that’s right. The camp was at home. Home was at camp. You were back at camp. You were at home. You were waiting for him. There were days the world came to full color from the night, from the grays under the moon to every color of the rainbow and more. That day, you and Louis had the fog, and so, as it warmed up, the world would be born from that whiteness, as if it were art appearing on a three dimensional canvas. Just up ahead he could see the warm yellow light still aglow across the porch. A beacon through the dense night fog. The ghosts showed him the way, guided him home. He risked it all by voluntarily going back into the fire after he just got out of the frying pan. But you asked him once if your love was worth it. He didn’t answer you then because he knew that it was. But seeing your face when he opened the door, he didn’t just know. He believed with his entire being that it was.

Some may call Renault’s survival and Stevenson’s death God’s will, but you and he see it a little bit differently. While neither of you can know for certain the real reason why Louis survived when John didn’t, you have your speculations. After the Second World War was over and France had healed, you and Louis left Africa and moved back home, back to the house where he put down new roots. Those roots grew into a tree, and that tree sprouted more branches after you brought your daughter home. By the time you reunited and married, Louis was in his sixties and you were in your fifties. You couldn’t get pregnant anymore, so you made the mutual decision to adopt an older child. It didn’t matter that you didn’t carry her in your womb or that she wasn’t of your blood. Adopting an older child came with its own unique set of challenges, but that didn’t make her any less wanted or loved. It was always difficult, but always beautiful. You were told that your recompense for mothering a late child was the comfort the child would be to you in your old age, especially if she was a girl.

And now here you are all these years later. You and Louis still have all of your letters wrapped up and tucked away safely somewhere secret, known only to the two of you. There’s hundreds of them. And sometimes, late at night, you take them out and admire them. When you’re alone in your shared bedroom, you reread them aloud and reminisce together. But as you grow older, it gets harder and harder to close the drawer. Someday neither of you will be here to read them. Your letters will be left behind to withstand the test of time. But neither of you need to worry because all of your precious belongings, including your mementos from both World Wars, will be passed onto your next of kin. You and Louis tell your daughter that, she’ll inherit your entire collection of letters, on two conditions. The first is that she does not read them until after your deaths. The second—”

Just as you and Louis are about to conclude your story, the sound of the doorbell radiates through the house, interrupting the moment and sending a jolt through all of you. The doorbell is a simple thing, yet all the best announcements are. The sound of the doorbell brings an inner leap of joy, and there’s a delicious moment where your daughter’s face washes blank with confusion, like her brain cogs can’t turn fast enough to take in the information from her wide eyes. Every muscle of her body just freezes before a grin creeps onto her face. It soon stretches from one side to the other, showing every single tooth. She runs through the house as if she’s a child again, despite your and Louis’ half-hearted attempts to tell her not to run indoors, all the way to the front door. When she opens it and sees just who it is, she doesn’t even let the man standing on the other side get a word in before she nearly tackles him in a bone-crushing hug. You and Louis stand behind your daughter, telling her to let the surprise guest breathe. Though his arrival is unannounced, you’re overjoyed at seeing him again in the flesh. It’s been so many years of letters, postcards, and long distance phone calls. But he’s here now.

“I’m happy to see you too, kiddo.” He ruffles your daughter’s hair.

“Are you here for a holiday? Oh, say you’ll stay!” She pleads, her eyes hopeful. But not too hopeful.

“That’s just the point. I can stay as long as you want me.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“Just this. That I’ve come back and I’d like to stay for good. If Mom and Dad will have me.”

“Of course we’ll have you, we’ll be delighted!”

“I echo every syllable.”

“Oh, Johnny, this is such wonderful news! Are you sure?”

“I’m really, really sure.”

Your son’s arrival brings you and Louis to your second condition: Your children must share their inheritance. When you wrote out your wills, neither you nor Louis wanted to favor one child over the other, nor deny either of them half of your love story by splitting up your letters, photographs, or other precious mementos between the two of them by adding restrictive stipulations. Nowhere did you state that you’d leave your possessions only to your daughter while Louis left his only to your son, or anything of the sort. You know your letters, your photographs, everything you hold dear will be in good hands and kept safe if left to both your son and your daughter. What they decide to do with it all will ultimately be up to them, of course, when the time comes, but neither you nor Louis want your children to fight over anything. They’re such good friends and love each other so much, you don’t think they would anyway.

Johnny and Louis shake hands. Louis doesn’t let go of his son’s hand and instead pulls him into a hug. Father and son pat each other on the back. He’s home. Seeing his son again in one piece, sans his left arm, reminds Louis of the day he attended the funeral. The memory of the services is still so fresh in his mind, so vivid. A bunch of men from Johnny’s regiment were gathered around, a soldier was playing “Taps.” Men in their army hats were standing at attention. Johnny, in his army hat, was standing at attention along with them, saluting with his right arm. The left one was missing above the elbow. His arm had been mauled. There was no saving it. The epitaph, so lovingly engraved in the stone, read:

HERE LIES

JOHN “JOHNNY” RENAULT’S ARM

1918-1943

SO LONG OLD PAL

Louis was praying over the grave then stopped. “Johnny, I can understand…having a funeral for an arm. I just don’t know why you insist on calling yourself ‘Stump’.”

“It’s what all my war buddies and everybody else is gonna be calling me, so we might as well be the first, Dad. I know they don’t mean anything mean-spirited by it. It’s just another nickname I’ve earned, and I’m proud of it. I may have lost an arm, but I saved another man’s life in exchange. If I had a do-over, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d do it again.”

Louis is drawn back into the present moment by your voice.

“So what happened?”

“It’s quite simple. I had to go all the way to America to figure something out. Well, that’s what I did.”

“Go on, what was it?”

“I learned that France is my home. And that you are my family. If I didn’t quite know that before the war ended, I know it now.”

Even before you and Louis got engaged, you were so in love with each other, you felt sick. You were sick with love. Literally. As if you’d gone mad, or been hypnotized, or something. For months. Years. All you could think about was each other. And then you were standing outside in the scorching desert, and you didn't have a hat or a sunshade. But you weren’t hot, because all you kept thinking was, he's going to propose. He's going to propose. It seems so odd to think about it now. It really does. But now you have your children, and someday they may have their own children, and so on.

Love is a disease. It can hurt, but it can also heal. It’s a disease that mutates, capable of spreading to those we care about and infecting almost everything and everyone it touches in many different ways. There are those who believe that they’ve built up an immunity and are convinced that they don't feel it. But it’s an impossible feat because, sooner or later, the world will show them that love is a part of the human existence in some way, shape, or form. Everyone needs to love and/or be loved just as much as they need air and water. And nobody can stop others from loving them either. Even if they were to be difficult over accepting such a gift, they would still feel it.

[free-for-all-fics]

Part 2 of 3 of the Crossover Prompt! This part is probably the longest, as this is where the meat of the story/prompt happens. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! ⚕️🤍

Although Louis, very reluctantly, returned to France as an acclaimed war hero in March 1918, his personal life soon took a turn for the worse. By the time he arrived at Madeleine’s house which he could no longer call home, she had already received a call from John’s family, telling her that they received a telegram from the War Department notifying them John had been killed in action. Enclosed with the telegram was John’s will. Despite their marriage collapsing, he refused to abandon her in her very fragile emotional, mental, and physical state.

Ever since she discovered she was pregnant, she lived the life of a recluse. She suddenly stopped going out in public one day and never left the house or accepted any visitors since. A boy delivered her groceries. Every week she left him money and a list by the back door, and gave him instructions to leave them by that same back door. She always waited until he went away before unlocking the door. She kept away from the front door and windows. She prayed every night that nobody would ever see her stomach before either John married her or Louis came home. When John’s family called to tell her the news of his death, she barely said anything before hanging up. When they came to the house and brought over everything John left to Louis and Madeleine, she didn’t answer the door. They waited a few moments, but she didn’t come. So they assumed she wasn’t at home and left the box of items on the doorstep. The door opened just a crack. Arms came reaching out from the darkness. They quickly snatched the box and brought it inside, then firmly shut and locked the door within seconds. John’s family didn’t notice because they were long gone by that point.

While she accepted Louis’ help and support, he could tell it was only because she had nobody else to turn to. John’s family could never know he fathered a child out of wedlock with a married woman. Madeleine’s family could never know she soiled their good name by laying with a man who wasn’t her husband and birthed his child. The scandal would break up their families forever, and that was the last thing she wanted. She didn’t have an alternative. She was far enough along that their only viable option by that point was to bide their time so that they could convincingly pass off the baby as Louis’. They’d likely have to fabricate a story about the baby being born premature. While she understood the risks that came with it, including the risk of either her and/or the baby’s death, she decided she wanted to give birth in the privacy of her home. It would be easier to lie about the baby’s birthdate and parentage if the only witnesses were Louis, a midwife, and maybe a wet nurse. She knew that. And he knew she knew that. But still Louis could see it in her eyes that she didn’t want him there, not really. Every time she looked at him, she probably thought about how it should’ve been John, the actual father of her baby and the man she truly loved, beside her throughout her pregnancy. Not him. Not Louis.

She often cried, as if the ferocity of it alone might’ve been enough to bring John back. As if by the sheer force of her grief the news would’ve been undone. He was her love, her husband-to-be, and he couldn’t be gone. Louis tried to hold her back, to calm her before she hurt someone or herself, but, in her hysteria, she was too strong, too wild. After whirling about, unable to look through her puffy eyes at the photographs on the wall, she tumbled out of the house onto the rain-kissed lawn in the middle of the night. As if she were desperate for a breath of fresh air, for a reprieve from the suffocating sorrow she felt trapped in. He watched her go, dissolved in the kind of despair that can take one's mind prisoner and never give it back. Her wailing carried in the damp air, freezing him in place. It was more than crying, it was the kind of desolate sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope.

She sank to her knees in the middle of the backyard, not caring for the damp mud or wet grass that dirtied her clothing, staining it brown and green. The skin of her hands became stained with the same colors as she tore the grass from the earth and clawed through the dirt, as if trying to dig a hole for herself. Her tears mingled with the rain and her gasping wails echoed around the neighborhood. The pain that flowed from her was as palpable as the frigid fall wind and soon the only person at her side was Louis. He placed his hands on her shoulders. That’s all he could do. She struggled to keep her tears silent as she took shaky breaths and looked up to the watery skies. There were no stars that she could see that night. But she had to believe they were still there, somewhere just beyond her human perception, still twinkling in the soft darkness of nothing, in all of its shadowed velvet embrace. She had to believe heaven was just beyond that darkness. She had to believe John was safe up there, comfortable and warm. To look down at the earth would be to imagine him lying cold in a box, bereft of her cuddles and goodnight kisses. So she kept her head up.

Louis had to take her back inside before she caught her death of cold. She fought him, accused him of having done something to get John killed on purpose, motivated by possessiveness or jealousy. She called him many vile things he didn’t care to repeat, including a murderer.

“Never mind the epithets. You don’t have to swear at me to get rid of me.”

“I never want to see you again. Never, never as long as I live! Get out of here! Get out, get out, get out!”

“I’ll get out.”

He gave her the benefit of the doubt and pretended that she didn’t understand the full weight of what she was saying and didn’t actually mean it. He brushed it off as her just needing an outlet, something or someone she could vent to and take all her volatile emotions out on whenever she was feeling overwhelmed. If it had to be him, so be it. It wasn’t the first time she had an outburst like that. Ever since she learned of John’s death, it was a recurring behavior she exhibited. He summoned doctors, did everything they instructed him to do to help her whenever she had an episode. But no matter how bad things became, he’d never send her away. It was out of the question. No matter how many doctors or specialists recommended or suggested it, he’d never even entertain the thought. He’d never put her in an asylum. Maybe a sanitarium would’ve done her some good, but she never would’ve gone willingly, and he’d never deprive her of her autonomy by sending her someplace unfamiliar without her consent.

She belonged at home, so home was where she stayed. She wasn’t crazy. The war made her lonely, depressed, and traumatized, and her pregnancy only exacerbated her psyche. Even if he swore up and down John’s death was an accident, that it was the tragic outcome of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he did everything he could to try to save him, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He knew what she felt and what she thought every single day as her pregnancy progressed, even without her saying a word to him. And it was that it should’ve been John holding her hand as she pushed and brought her child into the world. Not him. Not Louis.

She gave birth to a son, also named John. She loved her son. She really did. She loved him more than life itself. But, less than a month after she gave birth, she refused to hold or nurse the baby. She told Louis to take John Jr. away from her before she did something she’d regret. They could get a wet nurse to feed him until he was weened. She couldn’t do it anymore. She wasn’t ready to be a mother. She was afraid of herself. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly had these horrible thoughts about hurting or killing the baby. They wouldn’t go away, even when she shut her eyes to go to sleep. She’d never ever do anything to hurt John Jr. if she was in her right mind. But she wasn’t in her right mind and she didn’t trust herself to be near her son. She went up and down, down and up. She wanted her mind to be quiet, to give her some semblance of peace and normalcy, but it wouldn’t.

She was so unpredictable at times that Louis kept a close eye on her just to be on the safe side. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to believe that she would never do anything to harm either the baby or herself, but he couldn’t be too careful. Although it was extremely difficult and painful, he did as she asked. He kept the boy away from his mother. Doctors who examined her said she was suffering from “puerperal insanity,” a condition with an unknown cause. They could only theorize that her moods fluctuated throughout her pregnancy constantly and now that the baby was no longer in her womb, her hormones were causing her emotions to go haywire to overcompensate for the emptiness within her body. She’d likely experience random spikes and drops in mood until her hormone levels normalized, and the doctors had no accurate way of knowing when exactly that would be. It could be weeks or, more likely, months. They prescribed her some medications. They helped, but they weren’t a miracle cure.

Louis was all too familiar with walking along the road to recovery. It was a long road ahead. And the road to mental recovery was much, much, much longer than physical recovery. She walked along that road. When he was on it, he never walked alone. He walked with you. He walked with Nurse Haydon. So he walked with Madeleine, went at her pace. Whenever she came to a fork in the road and was confused and didn’t know which way to take, he just put up a signpost that said, “Not that way. This way.”

Louis’ name was listed on the baby’s birth certificate as the father due to the presumption of legitimacy. Nobody but he and Madeleine knew that the boy wasn’t actually his. With John Sr. deceased, all they could do for him now was share custody of his son and raise him to the best of their ability. To make the situation more bearable, they told themselves it was what John would’ve wanted. They were brothers in arms, yes, but John had not only been part of Captain Renault’s regiment and under his command. He was his friend. And to Madeleine, John was so much more than her lover. He was her best friend, her soulmate, if such a thing existed. They each felt they owed it to him to put aside their hard feelings and do what was best for his child.

No matter what cruel or accusatory things people said behind their backs, Louis recognized and raised the boy as if he were his own. To him, he was his son in every sense of the word except blood. While he became disillusioned upon discovering Madeleine’s affair and the love he once had for her was long gone, he loved her son more than most things. Even if the boy didn’t resemble Louis at all, they’d make up convincing lies about how he took after a grandparent and would do anything else in their power to try to put a stop to the rumors. It worked…for a few months.

Near the end of the war in 1918, nurses and the rest of the world were suddenly faced with a large-scale flu epidemic. It was uncertain where the virus first emerged, but it quickly spread through western Europe and around the world— First in ports, then from city to city along main transportation routes. This epidemic was deadlier than the war itself and was responsible for a majority of the deaths involving nurses. During WWI, over two-hundred army nurses and thirty-six navy nurses died while in service. By the end of the war, nearly three-hundred Red Cross nurses had also lost their lives.

15 April 1919

More people are falling ill from this sickness and even more have died. I heard that many of the people who left France have since formed a new community space elsewhere to quarantine, hopeful that they’re a safe distance away and won’t get touched by the virus. I have my doubts. I hate to be so pessimistic, but I believe it has spread to the point where nowhere is truly safe. To believe otherwise would be to hang onto false hope. I can understand why they would choose to do so. I hung onto false hope once, and it kept me going for a time. Without it, I probably wouldn’t have survived as long as I did. I probably wouldn’t have survived at all. But I didn’t realize until it was too late that it only blinded me to the truth, prevented me from seeing what was right in front of me all along. It caused me much more grief in the end. Once the beautiful dream was shattered, dying greatly appealed to me. It would’ve been a much more bearable sensation than what I felt in that moment. But you saved me, sweetheart, by showing me how I could save myself. I imagine that, despite the epidemic, you’ve chosen to stay behind to care for the sick and the wounded out of a sense of duty and responsibility to save others like you saved me. You never struck me as one to show fear in the line of duty, even when faced with the risks of infection or death itself. I remember how you told me that if you were to die so that others may live, it was a sacrifice you were ready and willing to make.

I commend your courage, my darling, but please, do everything you can to keep yourself safe. I’ve seen the mortality reports. So many nurses have already lost their lives. Too many. I watch the news closely, hoping your name will never come up amongst the deceased. I don’t know what I would do if you were one of them. While I wish I could be by your side now, I have people here who need me. All I can do for you is send you letters and hope that they reach you. I hope that, wherever you are, you’re not under a quarantine that would prevent my words from reaching you. I eagerly await your reply. Please, write to me as soon as you can so I know you’re alive and well. I fear I’ll go mad with anxiety if I don’t hear from you soon.

Louis xxx

Tragedy struck when Madeleine had taken ill during the Great Influenza epidemic in 1919. John Jr., whom Louis lovingly called Johnny, was still only a baby by that point and at high risk of contracting the disease from his mother. Both she and Louis were afraid that she’d infect the very young boy. Inoculation was particularly successful in preventing flu and greatly reduced the number of casualties so, in an attempt to protect him from the epidemic, Louis kept himself and Johnny away from Madeleine upon her request. They agreed that keeping the boy away was for his own good. Nobody saw her except doctors and nurses.

Despite the best efforts of medical personnel, her malady only worsened, presumably exacerbated by her grief and desire to be reunited with John. Ever since his death, she kept a piece of him in a box under her bed along with his unfinished letter to her. The fires of the crematorium had taken John beyond her mortal touch yet the fabric remained, a faded brown jacket of no importance to anyone but her. It wasn’t the jacket from his military uniform. That one had been cut by the doctors when they attempted to save him. This jacket was one he used to wear often in the winter. In his will, he left it to Louis. It would’ve fit him; he and John were roughly the same size, the same build. But Madeleine refused to part with it ever since she found it in that cardboard box his family dropped off. It smelled like him. And even after his familiar scent dissipated, she still wrapped herself in it, its fleece lining offering her warmth and comfort that John couldn’t anymore. It protected her from her bad thoughts. It kept her nightmares at bay. Ever since she received that jacket, she never once thought about John’s blood spreading through his military jacket, staining it an even darker shade of brown not dissimilar to the coffee she used to make him in the mornings.

When she heard the news of John’s death, death was all she thought about. She experienced suicidal ideation as she obsessively thought about her own death. Humans are so…so alone in the end. To die…it must be horrible. To be separated from the one you love, to walk all the way to the unknown, alone. John, Louis, all those men who fought in the war had more courage in their smallest finger than she did in her entire body…even the worst ones. She couldn't do it, she couldn't die. Not while a vestige of John was growing inside her. That little life still needed her. As she laid dying in her sickbed, she no longer thought of death. It was bitterly ironic, wasn’t it? It was difficult for the mortuary workers to remove the jacket from her grasp as rigor mortis set in, but they managed. Louis requested that she was buried with that article of clothing. Honoring his request, the funeral director had it neatly folded and placed in her casket at her feet. Just before the casket was closed, he asked for a few moments alone with her. He said his goodbyes and placed John’s final letter to her in the folds of his brown jacket so nobody would see it. Had he been able to stay by her bedside to hear it, Louis believed it would’ve been her dying wish to be buried with those mementos of John. Her heart always belonged to him. Louis hoped they were together, that they were free to love each other in death as they did in life, unburdened by the limitations of existence.

27 April 1919

I buried Madeleine today. I didn’t bring Johnny to the funeral. He’s so little and I didn’t want him exposed to all that mess. He was looked after by a neighbor while services for his mother were held. Of dry faces, there were none. The funeral was sweet sorrow. In the sorrow of death was the proof of love, of the bonds that existed beyond our reality, beyond the spacetime, matter and energy that made our world real. While everyone in attendance bore expressions of raw pain and silent anguish, myself included, the funeral was, above all, a celebration of her life and accomplishments. Memories about her were shared, stories about her were told, a few kind words about her were said, until the casket was finally lowered into the ground. The mourners departed soon after that. They offered me handshakes, half-hugs and pats on the shoulder, but none of them wanted to stay too long after they gave their condolences. Even the clergyman had gone. I couldn’t blame them. Death is a tragedy in the young and a right of passage for the old and so bring different kinds of mourning. Though it’s so intimately a part of life, death often makes people uncomfortable. While death is interwoven into every aspect of the human experience, it’s within our human nature to distance ourselves from it. I don’t know why, but I lingered. It was just me, the gravediggers, and her.

It rained the day before. Under my boots the squelch of the mud beneath the wet grass was as noisy as the static in my head. The grief surged with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by my long intakes of the damp spring air. Tears began to spill from my eyes onto the newly growing grass. She laid in the earth right in front of me and, as I watched shovels of dirt being placed over her, all I could think was, “I won’t return to a home where she both is and isn’t. I can’t. Though her body won’t be there, her presence will be inescapable. Her memory will cast its shadow over the entire house, permeating every wall of every room and the land immediately surrounding it. It’s not my house anymore. It’s hers. It always has been. It always will be.” I’m so sorry if my words frighten you, my darling. To be honest, they frighten me too. But I’ll be okay. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. Please, write to me and tell me of something happy. Something that made you smile or laugh. I could use some good news right about now. I love you for forever and always.

Louis xxxx

3 May 1919

I’ve not yet had the courage to return to the house I once called home just yet, so Johnny and I have been living in a nice little apartment for now. It’s not much, but it’ll be enough for just the two of us until I can find something better. I know you’ll admonish me for it but, in the days following Madeleine’s funeral, I was so focused on looking after him that I neglected to take care of myself. I was able to uphold a routine of feeding, bathing, and dressing him, but I failed to remember to shower or make food for myself. I was running on autopilot. But this morning it suddenly hit me all at once, like the gravity of my situation finally set in. Before I sat down to pen you this letter, I took time for myself to get cleaned up, eat something, and just sit in silence and process everything that happened in the last few days. My ex-wife is dead. My friend is dead. John and Madeleine’s families can never know about Johnny’s true parentage lest they become embroiled in scandal from which they’d never recover. There’s no other family to care for Johnny but me. For better or worse, I’m all he has left in the world - aside from my sister and her family, of course. Poor little orphan. Those who are destined to live during times of war and social upheaval are victims of a cruel fate— unable to find comfort in the past or peace in the present. They are the spiritual orphans of the world. He’s still napping, but he’ll be waking up and demanding his breakfast soon. I envy him. He doesn’t know a thing about any of it.

Louis xx

Initially, despite the loss of Madeleine, Louis enjoyed a happy life following his discharge, hanging out with his military colleagues and enjoying social activities. Eventually, however, his life began a downward spiral. As the years passed and peoples minds cleared, some of Louis’ fellow comrades, in particular friends to the deceased, began to suspect that Stevenson’s death was no accident. Whispers began to spread amongst the war veterans, which turned to rumors, then speculation and eventually quiet suspicion. Especially as Johnny grew older and started to resemble John more and more. Such brave men in the battlefield became such cowards outside of it. None of them had the courage to ever confront Louis directly, nor did they have the courage to understand the difference between honorable self-sacrifice and murder. They saw only what they wanted to see. Ultimately, even though they had no proof of guilt, Louis’ reputation was ruined. Realizing what his fellow soldiers were thinking, he stopped attending the military reunions and, after noticing the strange looks that his neighbors were giving him, became less and less sociable. Madeleine and John were dead, yet they continued to influence everything and everyone around them.

Nurse Haydon was only partially correct when she said Louis’ hearing loss was temporary and would return. His hearing did return, but not to the normal she had described. When Louis got a second opinion from an otolaryngologist, it only confirmed for him what he already suspected. He suffered permanent damage in one of his ears from the artillery shell blast and, as a result, became partially deaf in one ear. He had to adapt and grow accustomed to his new normal. Despite this, he heard every word of what was said about him. There was a silver lining in that, based on how well he was able to listen and respond to people while engaged in conversation, nobody would ever know he had hearing loss. But even if people believed he couldn’t hear them, Johnny had ears too. Louis didn’t want any malicious gossip coming back around and reaching his son. He feared that, at his age, the impressionable boy would be taken advantage of and fed lies, bullied, harassed, or otherwise the target of revenge by proxy and punished for the sins of his adoptive father.

7 July 1919

Ever since Madeleine first fell ill, I’ve done a lot of thinking about the worst case scenario and what to do next in the event that she didn’t pull through. Retaining custody and raising her son wasn’t a possibility I took lightly. I considered my options and weighed the pros and cons of him having me, of all people, as a father. I thought about how growing up without a mother might impact him. I thought about a lot of what ifs. I did the same when I considered adoption or temporary guardianship. Now that the funeral is over, I’ve tried to think day in and day out of what would be best for her son, regardless of my own feelings. But my feelings kept getting in the way. I’ve finally come to a decision. I don’t have the heart to give him up or be separated from him forever, but I can’t leave him alone in an apartment or dump him onto the neighbors unannounced while I’m getting my affairs in order. The best thing I can do for him is place him into temporary guardianship with my sister. She and her husband have children of their own and she’s someone I can trust. They’ve agreed to look after Johnny, at least until I can find a house and a job and am ready to resume parenting.

While my life has taken some unexpected twists and turns, I believe that, in time, I’ll be ready to step up and act as a proper father to little Johnny. I’ll send you snaps of Johnny and I together soon. I won’t have him for a while, so I’d better take as many of him while I still can. He’s a handsome little devil. In all the time we’ve known each other, darling, I never once thought I’d have to compete for your love and affections. But when you see his handsome face with his chubby little cheeks, bright eyes, and even brighter smile, I fear he’ll steal your heart right out from under me. Sweet dreams, my darling. And all my love.

Louis xxxx

17 July 1919

Oh, my God. Oh, my... Darling, I can’t keep you safe from the epidemic. In this matter I’m powerless. To lose my friend, my wife, and my son… Must I lose you, too? I don’t know if I can survive it again. My dear, in such a short time I’ve already buried two people that I loved. I can’t go back there. Not again. Your death would destroy me. I fear I wouldn’t be able to survive it. You can’t— You can’t leave me. If I lose you, I'll have nothing. I'll have nothing. Please, don’t go where I can’t follow. If that were to ever happen, I fear I would do something terribly drastic and irreversible in my desperation to be with you. Dear God, What am I saying? I must be going half-mad. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I don’t mean any of that. Ever since I sent Johnny away, the loneliness has been getting to me. I get sent pictures of him and letters from my sister occasionally, but— It’s just—

It’s so much harder than I thought it’d be. None of the attendees at the funeral saw me when I was laid up in hospital and first learned of her infidelity. They didn’t see how broken I was in mind, body, and spirit. But you did. Your mere presence served as a balm to many of the injured and dying, especially me. You put me back together again, piece by misshapen piece. When I thought I’d never recover from her betrayal, you... You took me through the worst of my grief, and I came out a better man because of it. You helped me pull myself out of a dark place then, and I believe you’ll do so again.

Your missives of encouragement will give me the motivation I need to keep going. Your sweet words will guide me home, wherever that may be. I promise I’ll take better care of myself as long as you promise me you’ll do the same. Please, look after yourself, my dear. Take a break and don’t feel an ounce of shame or guilt about it. I’d so hate for you to overwork yourself and make yourself sick. I love you and am thinking of you always.

Louis xxxxx

8 August 1919

I’ve been busying myself by cleaning out the old house and getting it ready to put on the market. How does that saying go? Don’t put off till tomorrow what can be done today. Well, I kept putting it off. I kept telling myself tomorrow, tomorrow for sure, but tomorrows kept coming and passing me by and still I didn’t lift a finger inside that house. I didn’t even turn the key in the lock! Now I have more work to do than I would’ve if I just mustered up the courage to go inside and sorted through everything within the month after she died. There’s so much to donate, so much to clean… It’s my own fault. I kept chickening out at the last minute. But It’s served me well as a daytime distraction…until night comes and it’s time for me to lay down and sleep. I’m once again alone with my thoughts and have to fight to keep them and my nightmares at bay. Sleeping in our once shared bedroom feels inappropriate, so I’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom or on the couch. But I still toss and turn as I try to think of something else. Anything else. Ever since Madeleine’s passing, I’ve sometimes felt as if she were looking through the wall at me. I know it's absurd, but I feel as if I’ll never be free from her so long as I’m here. When I write, she never takes her eyes from my hands, and when I call on the telephone, she never takes her eyes from my lips.

Tonight it was even worse, as if she were threatening. She’ll haunt my thoughts like a restless spirit if I don’t leave. I’ll sleep tonight with your picture by my pillow, as I’ve done every night. Your face always helps ward off the ghosts. All I can do for her now is leave her to Rest In Peace. Once I find a house, I’ll pack up all of my and Johnny’s things and finally take him back. Never again will I step back into this haunted house. These next few weeks will be unpredictable. I might not be able to write you again for some time. But please, don’t let my silence discourage you from writing to me. Although I may not have time to answer your letters in the foreseeable future, I’ll read every single one of them. I’ll keep you posted and give you an update as soon as I’m able. I promise. I love you.

Your Louis xxxx

21 November 1919

My dearest, please forgive me for my letters being sparse as of late. Though I had given you notice beforehand and you were aware that this would happen, I can’t even begin to imagine how much my silence must’ve worried you the longer it went on. I’m sorry for whatever stress or anxiety I’ve put you through. But I can explain. So much happened in these last three months that I found little time to write. My days became sacrosanct and, by nightfall, I was too exhausted to even pick up my pen. My eyes were so bleary with exhaustion that I couldn’t see the blank page clearly in front of me, and my eyes wouldn’t refocus no matter how much I blinked. After many weeks of living in a hectic world, everything has finally calmed down now and I can tell you all the marvelous news, darling! I found a house and I’m settled in. While not everything is unpacked yet, I’ve just about finished. I’ve spent these last weeks doing nothing but finalizing details and counting down to the day when I could finally sit down to write to you.

Even better, I have Johnny back with me. I missed him so much. Words can’t convey just how much. Four months felt like forever. Now that I have him back, I don’t plan on letting him out of my sight. Though it’ll take him time to adjust to the change, he’s already developed an insatiable curiosity. He’s already exploring and I’ve taken the necessary precautions of baby-proofing the house, including blocking off the stairs. He’s tuckered himself out, so I put him down for a nap. I must take advantage of this time to write a much longer letter to you. Though it won’t make up for my long silence, it’s a start.

Being a father is absolutely terrifying. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time or if I’m doing anything correctly. It’s strange how easy it comes, isn't it? Worrying. I don’t think it’ll ever go away. Not so long as I love him. And I love him so very much. I enjoy his company and hope that, as he grows older, our bond will be just as strong. The neighbors, especially the older ladies with grandchildren, have been nice enough to show me what to do and how to do it. They’re all too eager to help me and I’m so grateful. Though I don’t wear my wedding ring anymore, they believe me to be a widower whose wife died from the flu or childbirth. I don’t have the heart to correct them on a technicality. Nobody knows us. Nobody knows John Stevenson.

This is a new environment. Johnny will have the chance to pave his future here without the encumbrance of his father’s memory following him like a terrible ghost. I feel it will be better for him to have a clean slate rather than grow up where he would be constantly reminded that he’s the adoptive son of an “alleged murderer”. If we had stayed, John’s shadow would’ve loomed over him, darkening his every step, his every action, his every breath. Our old neighbors, John’s friends… They would’ve never let Johnny be his own person, with his own thoughts, interests, and talents. They’d take one look at him and only see John, his father. They’d hold him up to some impossible standard, unfairly subject him to competing with his father’s corpse, pressure him into being a carbon copy of the John they once knew.

As Johnny grows, I can see more and more of his father in him. He’s like John in so many ways. He has his eyes, he has his nice hands… but I don’t resent him for it. Quite the opposite. I hope he has his heart. Oh, it was a very good heart. A tender heart to be in such a rugged body. I just know what the people from our old church would say if we hadn’t left. They would say that he can thank God if he grows up to be like him but, while I’m proud that there’s a vestige of John that still lives, he’ll always be Johnny to me. Not John Jr. Just Johnny. He’s more than just his father’s son, and I want him to grow up knowing that. While John’s body returned to the soil, his spirit will watch over us and live in our hearts. It will bring sadness as we transform to this new way of connecting, yet this is part of living.

When you receive letters from me that are so brief they only take up a page or less, you can safely assume it’s because I was distracted or otherwise preoccupied with looking after a very active little boy who’s grown bored with crawling and now has to climb almost everything he sees. I can’t turn my back or my eyes away for a second. I’m always watching him, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself or get into something he isn’t supposed to. All my love.

Louis xxxxx

However, despite the change of scenery, during this period of his life, Louis became little more than a recluse who only left his house to go shopping, attend church, and take his son to school or friends’ houses and pick him up hours later or the next day. His life was nearly dominated by his guilt, not because of the rumors or speculation, but out of genuine remorse and regret over what he did or didn’t do. He often wrote to you that he believed it was his fault. It was his fault they were dead. Madeleine and John. He killed his family. He often thought about what ifs. If he’d done something a little bit differently, then maybe John would still be alive and…

You could tell he was heading down a slippery slope of self-hatred and you had to do something to snap him out of it before he succumbed to his survivor’s guilt. You had to help him realize that human memory was often unreliable, with or without the head trauma he suffered while in service, and that, no matter what happened in the past, he couldn’t let it consume him and suck everything out of him until there was nothing left but a despondent shell.

Due to what you called a family emergency, you had to quit your job and return home rather abruptly. Something happened in 1917. Something changed. Louis wasn’t sure what it was. During this period, you went radio silent and didn’t even have the chance to warn Louis of it beforehand. Your letters just stopped coming one day. His letters to you suddenly went unanswered or were returned to sender, and he didn’t know why. Did you move and live under a different address? Did you find someone else? Did you die? He couldn’t bear to think about it. You never called or sent a telegram or cable, nothing. There was no correspondence from you whatsoever for nearly an entire year. It was very out of character for you, assuming you were still alive. God, he missed you. He missed you terribly.

Eventually you returned to working as a nurse and you and Louis rekindled your romance as you resumed writing to each other in 1918. When he received that first envelope with your name on it, he opened it so fast he nearly sliced his hand open with the letter opener. In your first letter to him after you all but dropped off the face of the earth, he was expecting an apology and an explanation for your disappearance at the very least. It was with an unsteady hand that he slowly unfolded the sheet of paper and he realized then that he was afraid. Afraid that this letter would change everything. He began to read through its contents and… There was an apology, but no explanation. Your letter was brief as you told him that you were sorry for causing him to worry. You told him that “it” was over, but you weren’t ready to talk about “it” just yet. He didn’t know what you were referring to and, when he wrote back to you and asked for clarification, all you could tell him in your next letter was that “it” had nothing to do with him and didn’t refer to your relationship, but “it” was “a very bad thing”.

Your response confused him even more, but it was a good enough answer for him. It had to be, because that was the most he was going to get out of you. If he kept pushing, he would’ve only succeeded in pushing you away. He didn’t want you to retreat and close yourself off from him, so he changed the subject and never brought it up again. Whatever it was, you obviously weren’t in the right mental or emotional headspace to talk about it with anyone. But you promised he’d not just be the first person, he’d be the only person you’d tell, just as soon as you were ready. It was about five years later when that day finally came.

18 October 1923

That inner critic is a bit loud today, huh? It wants to save you from making mistakes but it's creating anxiety, doubt, and misplaced shame and guilt. I think you need a dose of self-compassion. Be as sweet to yourself as you are to others. Being kind should radiate inwards as well as into the world beyond. As a nurse, it’s my duty to see to the well-being of my patients. And that includes you, my dearest. You just tell me whenever you’re feeling glum or thinking such terrible thoughts, and I’ll prescribe you as many sweet words of affirmation as you need until you’re feeling better. You may believe yourself to be a monster, but the voice in your head that’s telling you such things is lying to you. It often comes out at the worst of times, when a person is at their most vulnerable. It gets especially loud during the changing of the seasons. When summer turns to autumn to welcome in the winter months, I’ve noticed a shift in the moods of patients. They too experience what you’re experiencing, and I promise that I’ll do everything I can to help you drown out that deceptive voice in your head.

If you still don’t believe me, let me tell you a story. When I was a young girl, I knew bad men. These men were the sweetest of men within our community, always ready to lend a hand and always quick with a joke, often followed by a generous laugh. Their words were to our ears what frosted cake was to our tongues. They were every wish come true that we never knew we should wish for. But if any of us had looked closer, maybe we would’ve seen how these men pulled back their lips and smiled through gritted teeth. These men were monsters in human flesh that only revealed their true nature behind closed doors. They fooled everyone around them. Every neighbor, every party guest. One of them even fooled me into marriage.

I knew Frederick Lannington since childhood. He was a friend and business partner of my father, closer to his age than my own. He was an American, though he owned properties all over America and Europe. Father was the last family I had left and, after he died, I thought I’d never recover from his death. But Frederick... He took me through the worst of my grief. He was a calculated distraction. If only I realized then how well-calculated it was…

“I'd like you to see my house. I think it will please you.”

“There can't be a place like it for one hundred miles.”

“One thousand. It's all been assembled with great care. There's only one thing that I've wanted that I've been waiting for for a long time, because I'm a perfectionist.” He kissed your hand.

“Nothing of value is gained easily,” you teased, before your eyes were caught by a beautiful vase, a true work of art. “How beautiful.”

“Isn't it? It needs a woman of your taste to appreciate its magnificent beauty. Here, look. Server, 1782. There are only two others like it in the whole world.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulder. “Note the perfection of the enameling.”

“How lovely.”

“I had to wait for it for seven years. The man who presented it in Paris was a fool who let himself be outbid by a Frenchman.”

“But you were stubborn.”

“Yes, I waited. Finally, I learned through a contact at the French Sûreté that the sister of the owner was seized in Germany. It would take all his money and more to get the old lady out. So I made my bid.”

“And he had to accept.”

“It was a bargain.” He kissed the side of your face, but you pulled away and walked around, your eyes taking in the beauty around you. He followed you and stood so close that he nearly pinned your body to the wall behind you, his chest nearly pressed up against you.

“I never saw such a collection.”

“All my life I've believed that if you were willing to take the time and energy, you could have anything you desired. All my life I have sought perfection.”

“It seems perfect.”

“Now it is perfect.” He leaned in and, though a part of you was apprehensive, you let him kiss you. But you didn’t let him do anything more than that. When he kissed you, there was no spark. There was nothing. You felt nothing.

He proposed to me when I was only seventeen years old. He got me alone while I was at a party with some friends. A friend and I went outside to enjoy the fresh air. We were animatedly engaged in chitchat, and I was too busy catching up with her to notice anyone else around me since I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Then Frederick approached me and interrupted our conversation.

“Dear, may I have a few minutes with you?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm busy.”

“Please. It's important.”

“Oh, very well.” You turned toward your friend with an apologetic smile and promised you’d find her later to resume your conversation. “I'll have to claim you a little later.” You walked away with Frederick, wondering what he could’ve possibly wanted that was so important that he had to drag you away from your friend. “Well?”

“I asked you out here to...to explain about last night.”

“It seemed quite clear to me.”

“Dear.” He held your arm, but you pried it off of you.

“I'm afraid I have a bit of a headache for this sort of thing.”

“There was no such thing intended.”

“Sorry, I misunderstood. Now shall we go inside?”

“Please. Darling.” He grabbed you by the arms to stop you from moving away. “Why do you think I wanted you to see my home last night? Why do you think I asked you to come out here now? From the moment I saw you again for the first time after so many summers apart, I knew I'd met the one woman that I wanted to be my wife. They call me a great man. It’s the loneliest animal in the world. I need you extremely badly, my dear.” He buried his face in your hair, kissing the back of your head.

You pulled away. “I'm afraid the answer is no.”

“Why? Because of my manners?”

“They have been perfect.”

“Well, isn't my house as fine as those you are used to?”

“Far better.”

“What is it then?”

“Oh, Frederick, I’m not fashionable enough for you. You need someone who’s elegant and refined.”

“I want you. What is it, really?”

“Well, it's just that I'm not attracted to you.”

“What's wrong with me?” He suddenly tightened his grip on you, nearly hurting you. His demeanor changed so quickly and so suddenly that it frightened you.

“Let me go.”

“Answer me.” He grabbed your face to forcibly turn your head and kissed you, as if his kiss alone could sway you to give him the answer he desired. You pulled away and he kissed your forehead, suddenly remorseful of his previous actions. He didn’t mean to be so harsh with you.

He apologized for behaving very badly and swore to me that it’d never happen again. He gave me time and space to think about his offer, and I mistook this as him respecting me, giving me a choice. I was left to fend for myself when it came to making decisions, good or bad. I was so young and naive with no one left in the world to guide me, and I foolishly believed him and forgave him. I came around to him and, in 1906, I married him. I was a bride at only seventeen years old and my bridegroom was fifty-two. Once the ink was dried on our marriage license, all the promises he made to me died on the wind.

People think he left me for some woman in Arizona. That we separated after I learned of his infidelity. But that's not the truth. Frederick regularly entertained and, when we returned from our honeymoon, at the begging of the neighbors who loved the previous ones, Frederick decided we’d host a fancy ball in my honor.

“The Lannington ball always was the show of the year. Top dog.”

“Grand site, the mansion all lit up. I love fireworks.”

“It does sound a little daunting.” Your voice was laced with the uncertainty and doubt of a new bride. You were still trying to find your place in the world and, after you married, you felt like an outsider in the world your husband belonged to. Everything was so different and new from what you knew and grew up with, and you were suddenly tossed into the middle of it without any warning or preparation.

“Oh, you’ll carry it off.”

“You wouldn’t have to do anything alarming. Just receive the guests and dance the night away.”

“Yes, my God. Whole county getting drunk and making fools of themselves.” Frederick nodded his head sarcastically as he picked up his glass of wine.

“Frederick always groans and he always enjoys it in the end.”

“Do I?”

“That’s a yes!”

“I’d like to help organize.”

Frederick shook his head. “Oh, no no no. You leave all that to the servants. They know the form.”

“Quite right. Never volunteer, my dear. You just have fun.”

As the day of the ball approached, Frederick became more and more stressed. And he took that stress out on me. He noticed my hands were stained. I still had small spots of charcoal or ink on them. He wasn’t pleased. Back in those days, women were discouraged from writing because it would ultimately create an identity and become a form of defiance. I realized that writing became one of the only forms of existence for women at a time when they had very few rights.

“What's that? Writing again! What about your duties?”

You, confused, looked down at your hands and wrung them together. You didn’t dare wipe them on your dress as you knew doing so would provoke your husband’s ire even more. “I... I finished them.”

“Oh, really? Did you tell the servants to make the beds? Sweep the floors? Weed the garden?”

“Yes.”

“Beat the rugs? Wax the table? Polish the silver?

“Yes, dear.”

“Wash and mend my clothes?”

“Hilda folded and put them away.”

Frederick turned and went up the grand staircase, but stopped halfway when one of the treads squeaked offensively loudly, the sound grating on his ears. He turned towards you. “Listen to that. You're supposed to keep the house in perfect order.” 
“But I didn't know about—”
“It's your job to know!” He went up the stairs and didn’t even glance back at you as he said, “I've taken care of you since your father died, and this is how you thank me? By frittering away your time, writing? This is atrocious.“

We were married for about five months when the evening of the party arrived. It took so many weeks of planning and, in between it all, Frederick either couldn’t or wouldn’t stop working. He was often called away, so it was hard setting a date that worked for the both of us. We wanted to celebrate our nuptials with our friends, some of whom couldn’t make it to the wedding. They were more Frederick’s friends than mine. I didn’t have very many friends to begin with, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let me invite any of them.

“I've asked a number of guests to dinner tonight at 7:30 to welcome you here.”

“Hilda told me you had. It's very nice of you, dear.”

“These people are very important friends and associates, and I won’t have you embarrassing me in front of them. I’ll be wearing my very best tonight. Diamond cufflinks and all that. I want you to do the same. Wear only what I had the maids set out for you in your bedroom.”

“But what if I've lost or gained weight since we saw each other last? Whatever new dress you bought for me, what if it won't fit?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid. It’ll fit. I've hired a seamstress for you. We can have all your dresses refitted to suit your new size if need be. I've asked her to stay late tonight, in case there may be any minor alterations necessary. I won’t have my wife caught dead wearing an ill-fitting dress.”

“You've thought of everything, haven't you, darling? If you'll excuse me—”

Ball guests arrived. They were milling about, the men in white tie, the women in long dresses and long silk gloves. The unmarried ladies were all dressed in virginal white, the bachelors in summer dinner jackets. Frederick was standing with me while I overlooked the party from the banister. The most important thing to remember was that I had to look impeccable at all times. My hair, my makeup…flawless all the time. Frederick got very upset if he saw people looking drab or unkempt or unmade up, so I had to look good at all times. Heels were a must. He didn’t want to catch me in Kedettes or, God forbid, sneakers. So heels had to be worn at all times.

From the corner of my eye, I watched him as he glanced me over, no doubt scrutinizing me, trying to find any microscopic flaw in my appearance so he could have an excuse to send me to my room. But there were none, so he said nothing. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I could see through to the drawing room. It was equally full as the foyer. People were moving in and out of the buffet where servants were serving champagne punch. Beyond the dining room, the terrace had a number of small tables laid out. There was the sound of loud chatter and music over the whole scene. The dancing was in full sway. An orchestra was playing a waltz. The older guests retired to the sidelines.

“It's a very nice party, isn't it?”

“Oh, yes, it's a wonderful party.”

“You’ve done it wonderfully well. I'm very proud. Shall we?” Frederick interlocked his arm with yours. With your arm laced around his elbow, he led you both down the stairs.

We nodded our greetings and shook hands with the guests that were standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for us. The hallway was thronged with the guests of the evening. Frederick left my side just for a moment to greet more guests but stayed close, standing only a few paces away from me. He was chatting to another man who was just leaving him. The front door was closed and the footman was still standing by. My face wore an expression of concealed anxiety as I looked furtively toward the front door, as if trying to will it to remain that way. Frederick came over to me and laced my arm with his. The great mansion blazed with light from every window. Frederick and I returned to the ballroom. The first dance was finishing. Gradually couples joined, including us. All the couples were talking as they were dancing, as they spun in the waltz, at the heart of the scene.

“Well, I think we might join the rest of the party now. I think all our guests are here.” As Frederick said these last words, he gave a glance toward you. Your face broke from its slight anxiety and you nodded acquiescence. He led you away into the main part of the hall and you were soon lost among the crowd.

The doorbell rang and the footman admitted a late-comer. His attitude was genial and breezy. He asked something of the footman, and the footman indicated the crowd in the main part of the hall. He got lost in the crowd, threading his way through the people, looking for me. I caught sight of him, and my face that once held concealed anxiety turned into restrained relief. My heart wanted my surprise guest to be there, but my brain wanted him gone as soon as possible.

It was Henri Freycinet, another friend of my family. I hadn’t seen him in years. We had been pen pals but, after he confessed that he loved me from the moment he met me, we were lovers for a time. Though our dalliance began in the autumn of 1905 and ended by the summer of 1906, shortly before Frederick proposed to me, we enjoyed our courtship immensely. As brief as it was. He wanted us to get married. We once spent three days and three nights sharing a hotel room, but our weekend in sin was just part of his plan to persuade me to accept.

“No. Henri. Henri, don’t. Henri. We have to talk about this reasonably.”

“I have loved you since the moment I clapped eyes on you. What could be more reasonable than to marry you?”

“We’d kill each other!”

“Nonsense!”

“Neither of us can keep our temper.”

“I can. Unless provoked.”

“We’re both stupidly stubborn. Especially you. We’d only quarrel.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“You can’t even propose without quarreling.”

“Mon cœur…” He kissed your forehead. “I swear I’ll be a saint. I’ll let you win every argument, take care of you. I’ll give you every luxury you’ve ever been denied. You won’t have to work. Unless you want to. Father wants me to learn how to fly, in England. Can’t you see us flying over London?” He took your face in his hands and kissed you.

But I refused his proposal. I said no because, when it came to it, he wasn't right. At least, not for me. We wanted different things.

“Henri, please don’t ask me again.”

He slowly lowered his hands from your face and turned away from you. He picked at the skin of his palms. He didn’t say anything at first, but he didn’t push you away when you tried to hold his hand and hug him from the side either.

“I’m desperately sorry. I do care for you with all of my heart. You’re my dearest friend. I just can’t go be a wife.”

“You say you won’t, but you will.”

“I won’t, I won’t!”

“One day, you’ll meet some man. A good man. And you will love him tremendously. And you will live and die for him.”

“Henri, please—”

“You will. I know you. If only I could be a fly on the wall and watch such a love unfold before my very eyes... While I hoped against hope that I could convince you to change your mind and consent to be my wife, your refusal won’t make me think any less of you or stop me from loving you. There are many different forms of love, after all, none of them any less meaningful or valuable than the romantic variety. Thank you, my dearest friend, for loving me and making so many beautiful memories with me. I’ll always treasure the time we spent together and everything we shared. That’s what you’ll be to me from now on. Mon trésor. I hope we meet again.”

I wanted to spare him from having to read a Dear John letter, so we called it quits and parted as friends. Even after we amicably ended our calf love, he kept writing to me from England. I knew he was still in love with me, but I cherished him as a friend and confidant even more than I did when he was my lover. Last I heard, he had just recently acquired his pilot’s license and was now Captain Freycinet.

“Bonjour, mon trésor. Remember me?” He tried to kiss your hand, but you wouldn’t let him. You felt your husband’s eyes on the back of your head, so he was probably standing just a few paces behind you. You only outstretched your hand to allow Henri a firm and impersonal handshake in greeting. You were quick to pull away after your hands met for just a moment, as if his touch burned you.

“Why did you come here?”

“This week, mademoiselle, we offer one red rose with each year's subscription...to the aviation magazine.”

“Oh, no. Please, you've got to go.”

The maids were whispering and gossiping amongst each other as they went about the room serving the guests. They tried to keep their voices low and cover their mouths with their hands, but Frederick could still hear what they were saying as they stood giggling by a table and filled their serving trays with finger foods and drinks. It looked to them like you and the man were flirting.

“The Mistress’s friend is a very attractive man, isn't he?”

“I heard from Jimmy that he’s an old family friend of hers. If you ask me, I think he’s an old beau who’s come back to rekindle an old flame. If she doesn’t take him, I will!”

The maids quickly went back to their duties but smiled as they discreetly watched the dancing in the ballroom.

Frederick purposely ignored their reference to your uninvited and unwelcome guest, but hearing the word “mistress,” even used in proper context, made his eye twitch and his fists clench like a nervous tick. He turned away to greet a guest. “Madame Estorik - I'm so glad to see you. The party seems to be going off very well, doesn't it? I must say my wife has managed wonderfully.”

By the way Frederick gave a half glance back again, I could see that he was doing everything in his power to maintain his composure. He was so tense that I worried he’d squeeze the wine glass he was holding until it shattered to pieces in his hand. His face was expressionless, the perfect mask of impassivity. But the look in his eyes only added to my uneasiness about him, as if he was warning me through his eyes alone not to test his patience. His attention had been distracted for a moment by two other guests, but not for long. He turned in our direction, his attention now fully on Henri as he followed our meeting.

There was a look of ungovernabie fury on Frederick’s face. He turned and moved toward the French doors. He started shoving his way through the dancers, blind to their presence, jostling one young couple. Hands were applauding wildly, the sound of the palms meeting was magnified, almost immediately augmented by the sound of many other hands clapping. The effect was a nightmare rather than realistic, the crowded dance floor and the guests applauding the end of a number. The party was clearly approaching its climax. The young people on the floor continued to clap, their applause rapidly being transformed into a demand for more music. The bandleader shook his head, half bemused, half anxious. Then, shrugging helplessly, he grinned, turned to his band and, as if suddenly caught up in the young people’s wild enthusiasm, led them into an impossibly fast Charleston. Some of the older guests seated at the edge of the room viewed the proceedings with increasing bewildermant and a little apprehension. That rug, that stupid old filthy rug, had seen more dancing shoes than a ballroom. It was where we all twirled, everyone with everyone, the music escaping from every open window and door.

“Well, my dear... I see you have a guest even more special than our other special guests. Come in, sir, come in. We mustn’t lurk in doorways. It’s rude.” Frederick’s voice and demeanor was cordial as he and Henri shook hands. “Any friend of hers is welcome.”

“Thank you. It was nice of her to invite me. I must apologize for arriving late.”

Frederick knew for a fact that you hadn’t, because he put himself in charge of making the guest list and sending the invitations out. He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “We both invite you.”

“Please leave. Please leave.” Your quiet pleas went either unheard or ignored.

Frederick put his arm around you, squeezing your shoulder. To anyone else, it would appear as a loving gesture. To you, it was a warning not to do anything stupid. “Don't be so inhospitable, my dear. As host and hostess, we must see that all our guests are fed…and amused.” He shook you in a way that seemed playful, then turned his attention back to the much younger man. “We’re pleased you are here. Did she tell you that we're flying East tonight?”

“That's why I'm here.”

“Indeed. We're to have the pleasure of your company?”

“No. I don't know how to say this, and I hope you understand, but you're not going to have the pleasure of your niece’s company either.”

Frederick paused, his eyes glancing off to the side questioningly. “We'll explore that remark over a drink. Come along. Won't you sit down?” He took your close friend and former lover by the elbow and walked with him over to the tables where there was food and drinks. “The wine is to the left. Highball? Or won't that mix with what you've had?”

Henri took a seat and made himself comfortable on one of the couches. “That'll be fine, thanks.”

“And where did you two meet? At the drugstore tonight?”

“Oh, no. We've been seeing each other every night.”

A lie. A blatant lie told to make himself look better in front of your husband, whom he mistook as your uncle. Henri only ever saw Frederick from afar or in passing, and he was always in your father’s company. The men were never properly introduced. They never actually met. It was an easy assumption to make. But you shuddered as you dreaded how such an assumption would cost him dearly. If you could’ve, you would’ve put your head in your hands in that moment. You wanted the floor to open up underneath you and swallow you whole.

“Seeing each other every night? Lovely. So you must be the young man.”

“Mr. Lannington, there's no sense beating around the bush. I'm in love with your niece.”

“That's quite apparent. Well, that's quite...romantic, Mister...” Frederick purposely trailed off, and Henri was foolish enough to take the bait and give him his full name, his real name.

“Captain. Captain Henri Freycinet.”

“A Captain? Uh...not a very substantial career, as yet?”

“Well, I think we can manage to get along without any help from you, if that's what you mean.”

“It is what I mean.” You tried to speak, but Frederick coldly interrupted your attempt at interrupting him. “Be quiet. Do you mind being not quite so demonstrative in my presence?“

“Mr. Lannington, I wanna marry your niece.”

“I wish you'd stop calling her my niece. She happens to be my wife.”

Henri instantly went white. “She's your wife?”

“Yes, Captain. Oh, I concede the conspicuous difference in our ages. She married me for my money. I married her for her youth. We both got what we wanted, after a fashion.”

Henri got up and stepped around you. Still holding his glass of highball in his hand, he finished the drink like a shot and leaned over slightly to put his empty glass on a table, which worried you.

“Where are you going?”

“I think I'll go out and get some fresh air.”

“Not without me.”

After he left, Frederick questioned you, his voice cold and calculated. Alone in the parlor with no witnesses, there wasn’t a need to put on airs anymore. The facade instantly dropped. “Does he bother you very much?”

“No, darling. He’s trying to drown his sorrows.”

“I don’t blame anyone for being in love with you, darling. I just hope that nothing will happen to give him any false impression.”

“Let me talk to him. I can convince him to leave and never come back. Just give me a chance. Please.” Your expression conveyed your desperation to get rid of your former lover and best friend before he got himself into more trouble, as well as veiled anxiety to get away from Frederick in that moment.

He stared at you for a minute, as if debating whether or not he could trust you. With a wave of his hand, he let you go. You didn’t waste a single second as you took advantage of the opportunity that he was giving you to clean up your mess yourself. You left in search of Henri. You knew that if you didn’t fix it in time, Frederick would.

Henri walked around the terrace, behaving quite casually and puffing away at his cigarette as though he had come out to enjoy the night air. Behind him was a faint impression of a glass door, faintly reflecting the moonlit garden. Suddenly a flood of light appeared from one of the side doors. As he straightened up and turned around, he approached the few steps leading to the side door, when you appeared and opened it, causing him to collide into you. Without a word you took him forcefully by the arm and dragged him inside, across to a corridor that led to the wine cellar, allowing him to pass through as you looked anxiously about you the entire time. You pointed to the back door at the end of the passage. He could leave quietly and discreetly through there without any of the other guests seeing him. You were struggling to keep it together, a disturbed and almost impatient figure as your hair raised from the back of your neck and chills raced down your spine. The more he dawdled and stubbornly refused to listen to you, the more time you were wasting. Soon it would run out, and you dreaded having to witness what would happen when it did.

“The fireworks are ready, sir. Timed perfectly to discharge directly after all the party guests are escorted outside.”

“Whatever you have planned is not good enough, Jimmy. Make them bigger, longer, brighter! Our guests must be captivated.” Frederick then gathered all the guests together within half an hour. The indistinct overlapping chatter quieted down as he grabbed their attention, everyone’s eyes turned towards him. “Everyone, outside. I have a surprise for you all! Just over there. The real celebrations will begin shortly.”

The fireworks were chaos and unpredictability, their explosive gifts finding their own time and space to own. As they did, the party guests were captivated spectators watching their blazing trails arc above. Frederick turned and looked across in the direction the two of you went. The party guests were too captivated by the popping of the bright colors lighting up the night sky to notice that their genial host slipped away. Frederick opened the side door leading to the wine cellar. As his silhouette darkened the doorway, your face held apprehension as you looked up. Words couldn’t even begin to express how disappointed he was in your failure to do something he thought was the most simplest of tasks. His short sigh filled you with dread. You knew the confrontation that he held over your head like a looming threat was now inevitable. A consequence of your actions. Or inaction, rather, depending on the point of view. From his point of view, it looked as though you and Henri were laughing. You insisted that your attitudes were casual, as though you were just enjoying some inconsequential joke. But while your physical attitudes were broad and gay, your voices were low and intent, which made Frederick all the more suspicious.

Some of the pages of your letter were blank, and Louis knew that you used invisible ink. A secret communication. He flicked open his lighter and used the flame to warm the blank pages, and hidden writing started to appear. It was a confession from you, meant for his eyes only. You loved Louis so very much. His happiness was the only thing you wanted in the whole world…but you did a bad thing to make certain of it. A very bad thing that you kept locked away in your heart for nearly five years.

Henri’s flirting with me, you know, a little buzzed. Then Frederick comes down to the wine cellar…

“I'm sorry to intrude on this…tender scene, but I saw you come this way.”

“Frederick, not here. We’ll talk alone.”

“You’re afraid to speak in front of him?”

“No. I couldn’t help what happened. He’s been drinking. Can't you see he's had too much to drink?” You protested, wanting this nightmarish scene to end.

“Yes, I can see it. He carried you down here?” His voice was laced with sarcasm and skepticism. It was a rhetorical question, and you knew that. He then turned his focus onto Henri. “Forgive me. My analytical mind again. You said something moments ago in the parlor that got me thinking. You’re still in love with my wife, you’ve made that point perfectly clear. So let me ask you one simple question: Is she in love with you?”

“Well, hasn't she told you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. She has not. She never even mentioned you.”

“Frederick, please!”

“You love him.”

“No. Absolutely— No. Not in the way you think. You're being foolish, Frederick. I came here because he threatened to make a scene unless I'd see him alone.” You turned toward Henri, one last desperate plea as you implored him to leave. “Please go!”

“For what it's worth, as an apology, she’s telling the truth. It’s funny. You say she didn’t mention me to you? She didn’t mention you to me. Just before I shipped out, I thought she’d wait for me. I realized I was mistaken when she told me she’d prefer it if we parted as friends before I left. She wanted to spare me the heartache of a Dear John letter. When I got leave I came back here, hoping against hope that I could win her back. But no. It seems I’m once again mistaken. It’s too late. I only had her for a short time. But in that time, I knew her better than you, made love to her better than you… And, if I had married her, I would’ve been a much better husband to her than you.” He glanced at you from over his shoulder and shrugged. “Sorry, darling.”

“Please go!”

“It’s time you get back in line, Captain.”

“If that’s how you feel. I believe I’m done here. Good day.” He turned to leave, but Frederick blocked the path to the door, physically stopping him from leaving.

“We’re done when I say we’re done.”

You had your chance to get him out, but you took too long. Now Frederick had to take matters into his own hands, and he had a point to make. Captain Henri Freycinet, so haughty and naive, became involuntarily involved in the domestic dispute and suddenly found himself in the thick of it, all because your husband was bitter, jealous, and ironic. Frederick pressed his fingers so hard onto Henri’s chest that the Frenchman left a bruise forming. “Appealing, isn't she?”

…and he grabs this poor man and just beats the shit out of him.

You watched in horror as Frederick beat Henri with a fireplace poker. A fireplace poker that he grabbed from the parlor before going outside. He knew you’d go to the wine cellar. He timed the fireworks so that nobody could hear the sounds of a struggle, any thwacks, thumps, and screams drowned out by the loud gasps of awe and thunderous applause from the party guests gathered outside. No witnesses. It wasn’t just a crime of passion. It was premeditated. First he hit him in the stomach, then the face, nearly stabbing him in the right eye and gauging it out with the sharp, pointed end of the iron rod. Henri fought back. But he was a pilot, so hand-to-hand combat wasn’t his forte. Regardless, he didn’t want to hurt your husband. He knew that if he did, even in self-defense, he’d be punished for harming him under a corrupt system that listened to money over justice. He knew he was screwed either way.

Using his strength, Frederick held him immobile on his knees. “You’re gonna learn, Captain.” He brutally punched him in the face, knocking him to his stomach on the floor. He kicked him in the face, then picked him up by the back of his jacket and slammed his face into a wall. “And if you ever even think of sassing me again—” Frederick threw him onto a wooden table. The table splintered and collapsed from the weight of Henri’s body and the force of the impact. He was bleeding heavily and barely conscious. Your husband stopped and noticed blood that splattered on his suit, staining the fabric. Blood that wasn’t his. His voice was laced with annoyance as he tsked, “Ah. Look what you did to my suit!”

You tried to stop him and act as a shield, but getting between the two men only resulted in your earring getting torn from your ear in the ensuing struggle. You’re still not sure which of them did it, but you were sobbing as you held your earring in your hand and pressed a handkerchief to your ear to stem the bleeding. Frederick didn’t stop until Henri struck his head on the concrete floor and was knocked unconscious. He nudged him with the fireplace poker, but the poor Captain didn’t move a muscle. Frederick checked his pulse and there was still a steady beat under his fingers. With Henri out cold, Fredrick didn’t see a point in continuing his lesson. Both the party and his fun was just about over. Captain Freycinet was as revolting as Frederick believed he should’ve been. He wanted the outside to repulse you so you’d never want to set eyes on him again. He was grotesque. Already his eyes were swollen over and bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws.

Frederick scolded both Henri and himself. “Oh, come on, that's a custom made Sartori rug! You idiot! I should’ve put a tarp down first.” With a wrinkled nose Frederick took a step backwards. He was tempted to whisper something in Henri’s ear. The Frenchman was broken and lying in a heap on the floor. He won, and he wanted to gloat. But what was the point. Henri would be lucky to remember his own name. Taking great care not to step in it and stain the bottom of his expensive shoes, Frederick walked over the bloody mess that had once been a man but was reduced to little more than an unrecognizable pile of mush. He dialed for an ambulance himself. Maiming a burglar who attempted to intrude upon his home through his wine cellar wouldn’t bring down nearly the same heat as killing one. And this way his disfigured face would be a living reminder to you of what happened to those who dared to cross Frederick Lannington and emasculate him by making public declarations of love to his wife in his house. He wouldn’t tolerate such audacity. With smooth hand movements, he wiped Henri’s blood from the fireplace poker with his cloth handkerchief.

“He kissed you.”

“I couldn't stop him. I tried.”

Then he tells me to go back to the party and see to our guests. He was so nonchalant about what had just transpired mere minutes ago. As if nothing had happened at all.

“We’ll talk about it later. Your guests are upstairs. Please join them. The ambulance is on its way. I’ll stay with him until they arrive, in case he wakes up.”

You heard what your husband said, but you couldn’t will your body to move. You were frozen, petrified. His patience wearing thin, Frederick forcibly grabbed you by the arms, squeezing so hard he left bruises as he shook you to snap you out of your shock. You were thankful the dress he gifted you and made you wear had long, opaque sleeves. Your movements were jerky. You were unable to move with any grace. You didn’t want to leave Henri alone with your husband, but you knew that staying behind would only anger Frederick and make an already very bad situation even worse.

When the paramedics arrived, everyone gathered around and gawked, barely giving them room to breathe. Everyone was told to back up and keep the area clear as Frederick, who conveniently divested himself of his bloodied suit jacket and stashed away the fireplace poker and bloody handkerchief so they’d remain unseen, hurriedly led the medics to where the injured man, unrecognizable in his current state, still laid unconscious, his voice laced with worry. He was a well-practiced actor and liar. He never faltered or slipped up once while questioned by the police and paramedics about what happened. His account was plausible and there were no contradictions or inconsistencies that they could detect, so they had no reason to suspect that he, a man of his wealth and social standing, would ever lie. He told the police that he didn’t want to press charges, believing the man, whoever he was, had suffered enough and wouldn’t dare to come back to try again at a later time.

His face was damaged almost beyond the point at which recovery was possible. There was a cut above his eyebrow, and the scarlet blood flowed into his eyes. Or rather, eye. Singular. By the time help arrived, the left eye was still swollen, but the right eye looked like it was on the verge of bursting out of the socket. His body didn’t appear to be too bad, until the paramedics cut away his clothes and the blooming purple patches told of internal ruptures, likely organ damage. They had looked at him with encouraging faces but were utterly ashen when he couldn't see them, giving involuntary shakes of their heads. Although he would live to see another day, it was uncertain if he’d die in hospital or not. even if he made it, those scars would be forever. And all the while there was you crying in the background like your heart had snapped in two. The hall was soon deserted after that, save for the last guest who moved, a bit unsteadily, out of the door. You and Frederick turned away from the last guest. There were signs of the end of the party. Footmen and maids were beginning to clear up.

You were worried about Frederick’s attitude.“Frederick, I’m really sick at heart over what happened.”

He looked at you and a new expression was on his face. The jealousy and pain were gone. In their stead was a curious urbanity. He would seem whimsical were it not for the underlying tension of his manner and the unexpectedness of his new attitude. “My dear…” He took your hands. “I shall never forgive myself for behaving like a stupid schoolboy.”

“Then you believe me.”

“Certainly, my dear. The incident isn’t even worth mentioning again.”

You started toward the stairs. Your voice was quiet as you told him, “Thank you, Frederick. Are you coming up?“

After that, we didn’t host or attend anymore parties. Frederick was a bad, bad man. Although he didn’t say it outright, I had my suspicions he wanted me out of the house so he could bring in other women. He married me because I was the only kin Father had left, so he left me everything in his will. He wanted control over my inheritance, all my money and my assets. Once he had that, he wanted to be free of the encumbrance of a wife. He’d send me away as soon as an opportune moment presented itself. Then Russia declared war on Germany. It was just what he needed. It was perfect. In 1914, in the face of opposition from the restrictive social code for affluent young women, he enrolled me in a training college under my maiden name so he could get me onto a course to start my training as an auxiliary nurse. He warned me it may be something of a rough awakening and asked me if I was ready for that. I’d have to learn how to make my own bed or scrub a floor, for example. Or what about cooking? He asked our cook if she could give me one or two basic tips, such as how to boil an egg or how to make tea. When I started my course, he didn’t want me to be a joke and thought it might be useful for me to know a little more than nothing.

After two months I finished my course and set off with a team of women to assist in nursing the wounded men from the war. I saw all sorts of gruesome and gnarly illnesses, injuries, infections, and loss of life and limb. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. It was more savage and more cruel than I could've imagined. But I felt useful for the first time in my life, and that must’ve been a good thing. I wouldn't go back to my life before the war. I could never go back to that again. As I learned about medicine and patient care, I learned to finally let the fake smile go. I learned to let all of my masks go, the ones I wore for others and the ones I wore for myself. Fake smiles simply said I was scared or uncomfortable. A real smile or neutral lips felt almost foreign to me and I realized how long it had been since I last sported a genuine one. I finally let my face do what it did naturally. I smiled with my eyes even when my lips were still.

Masking fear can be good or bad. It's all situational, right? If you defend yourself or others, it's good. If you cut yourself off from yourself or others, deny your vulnerable self the chance to breathe and cry, then it's bad. Masking fear was a survival essential when I was married. So much so that I didn’t feel fear as others did. I processed it differently. I thought that if I ignored the anxious thoughts as if they were some distant radio and got on with doing things that were right for me, in time they’d lessen and disappear. Now when I’m anxious, I vent with a person who loves me, one who has real wisdom and life experience to offer, one who’s the calm and not the storm. I can assure you with full confidence, my love, that you’re a far cry from those monsters and storms. You don’t even come close. My dear, ever since I became a nurse, I’ve taken great care to only see the goodness of those around me. And you, though imperfect as I am, as all living things are, have more goodness in your smallest finger than most people have in their whole body. Nothing you could tell me would ever stop me from loving you, my dearest. I love you. I’ll say it as many times as you need me to. I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, and then some.

Your nightgown transformed into your evening gown from that dreadful night. You looked down in bewilderment as you registered the transformation of your dress. The ballroom was empty and silent. You turned wildly to your right and, as you heard the music and the first sounds of gaiety and laughter, your face broke into a smile. Your smile was the silencing of the clocks, it was both the cage and the ever open door. You looked down at your hands, holding a cream-colored handkerchief. You started to turn your head very slowly, as if you were afraid that whatever was happening around you might suddenly vanish. You heard the door swing open more loudly than usual. He made his entrance late. You didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him. He was late and you didn’t play nice when guests didn’t show up on time. Then he spoke. You knew it was him but his voice was all wrong, like he was speaking while being choked. You turned. The figure of Henri melted away and transformed into Louis. And then he vanished into thin air before your very eyes. Where did he go? You had to find him. It was a game. The game of hide and seek.

You remembered playing hide and seek when you were a child, but you were never any good at it. Oh, the delicious thrill of hiding while the others came looking for you, the delicious terror of being discovered, but what panic when, after a long search, the others abandoned you! Those early experiences taught you that you mustn't be too good at the game. You mustn't hide too well. The player must never be bigger than the game itself. You’d always make enough noise so your friends would be sure to find you. But that only made you lose the game. You didn’t have anyone to play those games with anymore, but now and then you made enough noise just in case someone was still looking and hadn’t found you yet. When you went looking for Louis, you were playing a desperate game of hide and seek, fearful of what you might find, most afraid that you would find nothing. Love had a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who played solitary hide and seek. It was pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieved. Was life always like that? A game of hide and seek in which you always found the person you were longing for but only occasionally found the person you wanted to be? You wondered. Should Louis hide in your heart, it would not be difficult to find him. But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for anyone to seek you out.

The chandeliers were just beginning to go dim and you caught a glimpse of something from the corner of your eye. Slowly, very slowly, you turned to look toward the French doors. Louis stood in the open doorway, smiling as before, evidently waiting for you. True love was not a hide and seek game. In true love, both lovers sought each other. The lights were noticeably dimmer. You smiled and ran to him. Coming to a position just in front of him, you made a deep curtsey. He bowed to you and held out his hand. The scene around you remained static until the moment your hand touched Louis’. At that, the music burst forth again, the dance resumed and the ballroom echoed with laughter and gaiety. Louis swept you along into the waltz. You and the man you truly loved whirled around among the other dancers. The music swelled up. As Louis and you continued to waltz, oblivious of everything except each other, the other couples began to melt away, until finally, Louis and you were dancing on your own, still unaware that anything was amiss. Until you noticed that the hand with which he held yours was bloody.

“Louis, you’re bleeding—”

Your words were cut short when you looked up. Your expression froze into one of sudden terror. In one shattered moment your heart and breathing stopped, just stopped. Your mouth opened, but no sound came from it at first. A silent scream. He was a mess, drenched in his own blood. His nose was smashed and eyes almost shut with swelling. His arms were wrapped around his guts like he was holding them in. He was beat so bad that he could’ve been. The music slowly began to fade. Noticing this, Louis faltered and, as he turned to look at you, the music died away completely. He stopped and reacted first with uneasy bewilderment and then with fright. He disengaged himself from you and started to back away towards the French window, his eyes riveted on something behind you. You turned to follow his gaze. The dancers melted away to the very edges of the room in order to clear a path for Frederick, who stood by the open doors of the ballroom and stared at the both of you in a smoldering rage.

Without a word he began to advance on you. You turned to look at Louis, but his eyes were now riveted on your husband as he backed away even further, staggering out into the night. Suddenly, with a cry of fear, he turned, burst open the French window and fell out to his death. You stared into the darkness of the night for a moment and took a few steps forward, as if to chase the vanished apparition, then stopped. His body was gone, leaving behind only bloodstains on the concrete pavement. There was plenty of room for another body. You looked down and your cream-colored handkerchief was wrapped around a concealed knife. A pristine blade, it glinted in the moonlight, waiting to be stained and tarnished with the blood of a man. You clutched at the handle for more purchase as you turned to face your husband. As he advanced on you, he ran into your knife. The knife only did what it was told to do, so you were sure to give it good instructions. You stepped aside and Frederick staggered forwards, taking the knife with him as he fell out of the window onto the exact same spot Louis had been. His body didn’t disappear. As if he was meant to be there when Louis wasn’t. His once brown eyes became hazy as they clouded over with a milky white, translucent film. Your experience as a nurse taught you that this happened after death due to lack of oxygen and circulating blood to the eyes. There was a saying, “Those who die with their eyes wide open deserve it.”

You gasped as you jolted awake, your body covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. There was silence. You were lost, frightened. The light from the hallway flickered and you looked down. Your evening gown turned back into your nightgown. Another nightmare. You could barely move when Frederick was so close to you in your shared bed. Every muscle seized up. Your brain was struggling to recover, to repair the damage of what you witnessed. On each of your arms there were great purple welts that would only deepen over the coming week. Against your ghostly skin they were grotesque, but you knew you were lucky not to have broken bones. Though Frederick never once laid a violent hand against you, the shadows of the beating he inflicted upon Henri were on your skin and heart. The knowledge that your husband could do such a thing just broke something inside of you, something that would remain long after Henri’s skin and bones were healed. It was a sadness in your eyes, a heaviness, an unyielding sorrow that slowed your speech and robbed you of your once easy smile.

Once the color of the night sky with its threads of blue and gold, that Sartori rug told a tale of fear and jealousy once it was stained with splotches of red that, over time, became brown. Frederick could’ve easily replaced it, brought in another. The cost of doing so would’ve been like sparing pennies from his pocket. He could’ve hauled it to the best dry cleaners in the country and have it washed as best as they could. But instead he kept it as it was, wanting those dried bloodstains to serve as a grim reminder to you of the consequences for impertinence.

When you first saw Henri in hospital, you almost didn’t recognize him. His clothes were an utter mess. He was more purple than any human should’ve been. His face still bore congealed blood. He was missing his right eye, which was covered by bandages. His left eye was still swollen. He couldn’t be seeing a thing out of it and he wouldn’t for a while yet. Until his left eye healed, he was blind and had to have nurses keep him steady and guide him. His gait was all wrong. He walked like a scarecrow more than a man. As he neared, your heart was caught in your throat. You were already running. You couldn’t face him just then. Even if what happened wasn’t your fault and you were just as much a victim of Frederick as he was, you couldn’t stop the immense guilt that overwhelmed you and held you in a chokehold. Maybe it made you a coward, maybe it made you selfish, but you couldn’t face him while he was like that.

Due to the extent of his injuries, Captain Freycinet wasn’t expected to make it. But he was a fighter and, miracle of miracles, his emergency surgeries were successes and he pulled through. When questioned by hospital staff about the incident, he could never recall how long the beating had gone on for, only the final kick to his ribs and the sound of the iron bar clattering on the concrete as his assailant dropped it. He laid in the hospital bed, his eye fixed on the window until you walked in. He turned his head to face you. He looked better than when you first saw him. Still bad, but better. He knew already what face you would make, and you did. Your eyes got that wide look, your bottom lip trembled and you hurried to sit by his bedside. Your eyes walked from one injury to another, taking in the gore that was your friend. He could see the conflict already, your wanting to be strong for him and the raw need to weep welling up. He tried to say your name, his cracked lips failing at the first syllable due to dehydration, but he didn’t need to. So instead he croaked,

“It's all right. You can cry.”

It was all the permission you needed. With your head down on the white woolen blanket, minutes passed until you could speak his name. You fetched him a cup of water and he tried to make light of the situation by telling you that he had far worse while in active service and, despite Frederick’s best efforts, he was healing rather well and his appearance wasn’t ravaged. Even with the eyepatch, he was still devilishly handsome. Crisis averted. With his left eye intact, he’d still be able to look at himself in the mirror and admire just how handsome he was. He made bad jokes and puns about how, since there were women who were sexually attracted to men with scars, maybe there were women out there who would be sexually attracted to him now that he sported an eyepatch. Glass eyes didn’t appeal to him, but the eyepatch, now that could be fashionable. He’d also still be able keep an eye on you. Get it? Keep an eye on you? Eye? Singular? The jokes fell flat, but you still appreciated the effort. You smiled wanly at each other.

Henri knew it was easier said than done, but he told you to stop feeling guilty over what happened. He had a lot of time to think about it while laid up in hospital and, looking back on the night of the party in retrospect, he realized that you did everything in your power to protect him. He didn’t blame you one bit for what Frederick did to him. It would take time, but he believed he’d be able to recover and walk away from this, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally as well. A scar may still be there, but he believed that it would gradually hurt less and less until it didn’t hurt at all anymore. He was hopeful and optimistic that, with the right support, he’d heal. He wanted the same healing for you.

After Henri lost his eye, he gave up on ever falling in love again. All jokes aside, in all honesty, what woman would want a man who wore an eyepatch due to his missing eye? But he was okay with it because he already was fortunate enough to experience romantic love once with you. You and he would always have those winter and spring months, those nights in the hotel room. No woman on earth could ever take your place in his heart. And nothing and nobody had the power to take those memories away from either of you. Even after you ended things, he was so grateful to you for continuing to love him platonically.

He reminded you of your time spent together in the hotel room all those years ago, what he said to you about love and what he saw in your future. He still believed his words to be true and made you promise him that you’d at least try to find love, real love, with another man. You had your entire life ahead of you and still had time to move on. When the opportunity finally presented itself, he wanted you to take that chance to leave Frederick and find a man who would treat you as you deserved to be treated. Maybe it wouldn’t come tomorrow, and maybe not next week, but he hoped it would come for you soon. Though you weren’t right for each other, he still believed there was someone out there that would be right for you. Frederick’s beating of him hadn’t changed that. If anything, it only reinforced his beliefs. And even if he was wrong and you never found romantic love, even if the both of you lived out the rest of your lives single and unattached, it didn’t mean either of you would be alone. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Love presented itself in many different forms. It could be found in friends, found family, a pet…but the most important love of all was the love you held for yourself.

Frederick tried to rip that love out of you in his endeavors to break you down and mold you into the wife and woman he wanted you to be, but he failed. You thought you lost your ability to love yourself, but you found it in 1914 and brought it out when you met Louis. It was greatly damaged and weakened, but it wasn’t dead. It was still there, nestled deep inside of you somewhere. It went into hiding again in 1917 when you were forced to quit your job, but it was still there, just waiting to be let out again. You could feel it. It was tucked away somewhere safe, somewhere Frederick could never reach it. He could very well try again, but he couldn’t kill it. And that which couldn’t be killed could only be made stronger.

One of the last things Henri said to you before you returned to the mansion you considered your gilded cage really resonated with you. His words inspired you, gave you strength:

“Make dread dead, not buried but in an open casket, for we need to be realistic in order to both grieve and make good choices about our next step. Dread is a fear flag, it’ll give you a chance to reflect upon the opportunity arriving and find real reasons to be at peace with whatever change comes to you.”

I’d always hoped Frederick would give me a divorce, that he’d never miss me as long as I left him with his money. For a time, he led me to believe that he was open to the idea. Only to pull the rug out from under me and tell me he changed his mind instead. He wouldn’t give me a divorce. Not ever.

While you were in the middle of helping a patient, one of your fellow nurses fetched you to tell you that you had a phone call. She said that it sounded important, so it was best not to keep him waiting. She took over for you and stepped in to help the patient you were with while you picked up the phone. Although he obviously couldn’t say who he really was, you knew it was your husband calling as soon as the other nurse said “him.” It couldn’t have been anyone else. His call was unexpected. He never once called or wrote you before. You enjoyed nearly three years of no correspondence from him, so why did he call you now? What did he want?

“Hello, Frederick. You're calling very early. What time is it in California? Heh. Frederick, you shouldn't have nightmares. Wrong? Of course not. Oh, but that isn't true. There is something, not wrong, but... Well, I had intended to write to you about it. I hardly know how to tell you. Something quite overwhelming has happened—”

Frederick interrupted you, not caring to listen to whatever you had to say. What he had to say was much more important. He wanted you to give notice and come back to him. When you dared to ask him why, the reason he gave was that he tried living on his own but didn’t like it, so he wanted you to resume your duties as his wife and mistress of the mansion at once.

“And what about my work? What you’re asking is impossible, Frederick.”

“What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers? I’ve already notified the hospital and am sending a driver to pick you up and take you to the airport. You will come home at once.”

The line clicked.

“Lannington. Lannington? Lannington?”

He had hung up without letting you get another word in. Of course he did. He always had to have the last word.

Having no choice, you made plans to return to your husband’s mansion. You wrote as soon as possible, informing the staff that, since you were coming home to take up your duties again, neither a nurse nor a secretary would be necessary. As Frederick’s wife and mistress of the house, as well as a fully trained auxiliary nurse, It would seem redundant to keep on other women and pay them to do your job. You wrote that they were dismissed, effective immediately. You expected their bags to be packed and for them to be gone by the time you arrived. You knew there were others before them, just in-and-outers, but these women lasted a whole month. They must’ve been Frederick’s favorites. If your husband wanted you to act as a wife, then so be it. You’d comply with his wishes. And you wouldn’t care how frustrated and angry it made him.

“Hello, William… Yes, William, it’s me.”

Your butler had been staring at you in silent awe, as if he couldn’t believe it was you. You were a completely different woman from the one he knew. You changed. For the better, it seemed.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Lannington.”

“Thank you.”

“Your husband is waiting upstairs in his room.”

“Yes. Well then, we’d better not stand here gabbing. When he waits, he gets mad, and when he gets mad, that means rush the smelling salts. He has ears like a cat, and he heard that bell as sure as preaching. I’d better hurry right in.” You walked into the bedroom. Your husband was sitting in an armchair by the window, waiting for you like William said he was. You walked over to give him a kiss on his cheek. “Well, Frederick. Hello. Frederick, you're looking wonderfully well. Hilda told me you'd been ill, but—”

“Hilda knows nothing about me. Step over there where I can see you. Turn around. Walk up and down. It's worse than I was led to suppose. Much worse.”

“If you'd like me to go...”

“Don't go. I have things to say to you. Sit down. I’m aware that you dismissed the last nurse and secretary without any input from me. They both left this morning before you arrived, as you ordered.”

“Well, darling, your past nurses all told me that you’re fit as a fiddle. You have a heart. You deny it, but you have one. But at your age, who wouldn’t have? It’s nothing serious. Ought to last you for years if you don’t get excited. It sounded to me that a nurse hadn’t ever been necessary, and that you mostly used them to fetch and carry. And now that I’ve come home to take up my duties as a wife again, I didn’t see the point in keeping either a nurse or a secretary since I’m more than capable of fulfilling both roles. You personally saw to that, darling.”

Frederick said nothing, but you could tell he was seething. You were right, of course. He practically forced you into marriage. He forced you to attend countless etiquette lessons. He forced you to attend nursing school. Through his mandatory teachings, he equipped you with a unique set of skills. Then he forced you to quit your job and come back home. Why wouldn’t you fire his nurse and secretary? You were a dog that learned to bite back. And it was his doing. You were right. And he hated it.

“Be that as it may, I've become used to having a room occupied on the same floor with me and, in view of my heart, I agree it is a wise precaution. You will occupy the master bedroom with me from now on. I had William move down all your things yesterday. Your furniture, books, and everything.”

“But, Frederick... You had no right to move my things.”

“No right in my own house to move what I see fit? I'm not surprised you blush. I was in the room when William took the books from the shelves, and let me say that what we found hidden there was a very great shock to me.” He pulled out an all too familiar box and began reading from one of the first letters Louis ever wrote to you, his voice laced with thinly veiled disgust at what he thought was excessive and unnecessary schmaltz. His face was ablaze with annoyance and contempt.

…Sweetheart, I love you. There. I said it. And if you meet me tomorrow, I’ll say it again. And again. And keep on saying it till we’re old and gray. So, as soon as the war is over, let’s do it. Once everything is settled, let’s get out of Europe and go someplace far away, where war can never again touch us. I know it’s risky, but so’s staying here. The last few months have been hard, but they’re always a little easier when you’re there. As soon as I write you again to give you some sort of signal or sign, leave your boat and meet me at the hill overlooking the old bridge. Bring whatever you can carry. We’ll make do without the rest. Don’t be late.

Louis xxx

“Do these words sound familiar? They should since they’re love letters addressed to you. From another man. Don’t waste your breath trying to explain yourself, my dear. And don’t insult my intelligence by trying to deny it either. I’ve seen you for what you are. I should throw you out, as is my right as a husband with a pretty little cheat for a wife.” Frederick scoffed, “Amazing creature. To have deceived me so.”

“Don't talk like that. You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Why not, my pretty cheat? I'll talk as I please. I've been thinking about this miserable business all night. You’re insane and you must be humored. We must be reasonable and we must be realistic. I gave you a great deal.”

“I know,” you lied through gritted teeth.

“I wonder if you do.” Frederick inhaled deeply. “You're lucky it was only me and William that saw the letters. Be grateful that I don’t burn them in the fireplace or rip them to pieces. I still could change my mind about that. I have it in me, wife, to remove this impertinence.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Then don’t provoke me. I’ll only ask you once. Who is he?”

“Very well. I didn’t want to tell you this way, but you’ve forced my hand. If you must know, he’s someone I've known for nearly two years. Someone I love very much. I can't help it. How else could I say it? However I'd say it, it would be wrong. You must think I've messed this up terribly. But I’m not sorry. You want me to feel ashamed and humiliated for what I feel, for what I’ve done, but I don’t. I’m glad to have finally told you. Do you hear me? I’m glad. You dare to call me a cheat?” You scoffed. “You're one to talk. What have you given me? Love? Affection? Care? The only thing you've given me is an empty house and a marriage that leaves me thinking everyday how much I'd like to slit my wrists!” You snarled.

“Oh, darling, even before we were married, I’ve treated you like a princess! I’ve given you everything! It’s you. You’re nothing but an ungrateful little-little- You’re a little witch! When I think of-of-of all the years that I’ve worked to give you the life you have so you would never know what it is to live without the latest luxury, and this is the thanks that I get? You’re spoiled. Not just because you’re behaving like an ungrateful brat, but because you’re damaged goods. Were there others in between Captain Freycinet and this Louis? Or aren't you the kind that tells?”

“Oh, you mustn't think too harshly of my lovers. They were very kind and understanding when I came to the hospital after a hard day at home.”

“Wife!”

“Well, what did you expect? Do you think I ever would've looked at another man if I'd received one grain of affection from you? You wouldn't allow a dog in the house. Of course, you didn't need one with me around. I was petted, admired, but never loved. After nearly ten years of marriage, you still think my love can be bought with fur coats and diamonds. At least Captain Renault—”

“So that's his name? Renault?”

Your spine stiffened as you realized your mistake. In the heat of the moment, you let your mouth run away with you and gave Frederick a name to go off of. Without a doubt he'd be like a bloodhound with a scent until he found out exactly who Louis was. And when he did…you feared he’d murder him and cover it up, make it look like an accident or suicide. Or even worse, that he’d make Louis disappear altogether, erase him from history as if he never even existed. An unperson. Before you were married, you’d never figured Frederick to be the jealous or violent type. Until that horrible display in the wine cellar… You were all too aware of what Frederick was capable of when in a jealous rage. You made the mistake of underestimating him once, but you never did it again. Any retort died on your lips as you listened to Frederick’s cold and calculated voice, his tone laced with barely concealed anger and jealousy. The mask he had so carefully crafted was once again slipping. But you didn’t retreat. You pressed on.

“What happens in my love life is none of your business!” You hissed to him. “In ten years of marriage, you never cared. Why should you care now? I don't think you do. You just want everyone around you to be miserable.” You were about to end the conversation there and turn your back on him to leave, but his voice stopped you.

“That's where you're wrong. What should happen if you fall with child? By law that child would legally bear my name. And should that child resemble his or her father? You and I both know all the repercussions that would happen should that child's lineage ever be revealed. You and I both know that those whispers would forever follow that child around no matter where he or she went. There would be nothing you or I could do to protect him or her. Nothing, my pretty little fool. So, if you’ve been sleeping with another man, I have a right to know.”

“You dirty minded fool. I’m sick of listening to your filthy accusations. What about your bed? You want to act all high and mighty by telling me you never took a mistress, but what about your secretaries? What if any of them fell pregnant with your child? What would you do then? Leave me for one of them? Convince her husband to let his wife leave him for you? Why don’t you call on Margo? She’s available, you know. Jeff Cameron is a broke and poor psychiatrist, and Margo probably would leave him in a heartbeat for you and all your wealth! She warmed your bed for weeks while I was in training. Did you think I’d never find out about that? What makes you so much different than me? Maybe I want my bed warmed and maybe I want anyone but you warming it!”

“My dear, I've a dreadful headache for this sort of thing and—”

“I'm sorry, but I have a headache too, and I think mine precedes yours by quite a few years.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer me one way or the other. Your bags are packed. If you want him, you can have him. After all, why shouldn't you have a husband? You have him, my dear. Hmm. Have a dozen of them. Sooner or later you'll come back to me. You'll realize that nothing matters but money. Everything passes but money. And me. Only first, you should know what you'll be getting yourselves into. There may come a day when it’s too late to repent and I won’t be there to save you from ruin. You can leave to be with him, that's true. Up to a point. I have an early flight to catch tomorrow, so I better pack my bag. We’ll discuss…this…further upon my return.”

During this period you couldn’t write to Louis at all because Frederick was watching you like a hawk. It was a mercy that he let you keep Louis’ letters and didn’t make you watch as he burned them all in the fireplace. Even when Frederick wasn’t physically there, he still had eyes and ears all over the mansion. While he was out doing God knows what with God knows who, he had the servants act as spies, watching your every move, listening in on your every word. Even if it appeared as if you were alone in a room, you could never be sure that there wasn’t an indoor servant lingering behind a door or an outdoor servant peering in at you from a window. Any behavior regarded as strange or unusual would be reported back to him and used against you, so you had to be discreet. Very discreet. You couldn’t trust anyone. Not even your personal maids. The periodic phone calls you received from Frederick didn’t help matters either. You had no choice but to answer them. Missing a call or failing to return a call within what he thought was a reasonable timeframe only meant trouble for you down the line.

“…I’m being kept a prisoner and you want thanks?!”

“A prisoner?” Frederick laughed, his voice sending chills down your spine as it crackled and distorted over the receiver. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit melodramatic, dear? Silly child, our house isn’t a prison. It’s…a castle, a beautiful castle in the middle of a wooded area that’s like an enchanted forest. There are millions of women who would give their right high teeth to live in a place like we do. Why, you’re surrounded by luxury and just look at the view from any of the balconies. Darling, where are you ever going to find a view again like that?”

“Oh, I don’t care about the view! I’m bored with it! Sure, it’s pretty, but after a while it all seems the same. It’s boring and I’m bored being here all by myself, cooped up surrounded by servants but no one to talk to, no one to share with!”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you worry. Don’t you worry. I’ll be home soon and I’ll keep you company every day until I have to leave again. Every day.”

“But I want a friend.”

“Your own husband isn’t good enough for you anymore?”

“It’s not that. It’s just that I want someone new and exciting to come into my life.”

“And take you away from me like those Frenchmen almost did? Never! No, it’s out of the question!”

“But Frederick—”

“No, no, no! You’ve fooled me once, you’ve fooled me twice, but I will not let you do this to me a third time!”

You knew you would have to wait for an opportune day when everyone was out of the house except for you, when all the servants were off while Frederick was on a business trip or otherwise gone. You couldn’t just dismiss them all for the day outright. That would look too suspicious. So you came up with a plan that would ensure the servants were kept silent and distracted. You gathered them all in the foyer and told them that you wanted to host a surprise party for your husband to welcome him home when he returned from his business trip overseas. With everyone sent out on errands for a big and important event, you were finally able to have a moment alone. You made just one phone call.

“Mrs. Lannington, this just came by air express from New York.”

“Thank you.”

“The seamstress is here about the dress. Do you want her in?”

“In a little while.”

“Yes, madame. I'll get another blanket and bring your clothes up as soon as I get a chance.”

“No, thank you. You needn't bother.”

“Yes, madame.”

Frederick returned from his business trip in America much earlier than originally anticipated, but all of the servants and party guests knew that he would. You were ready for him. As his wife and mistress of his great house, he always told you that you needed to learn to expect the unexpected. No matter how late it was in the evening, he still expected you to greet him when he came in. But you purposely weren’t there to greet him that night.

“Quiet, everybody. Here he comes now.”

“Surprise!” The crowd shouted simultaneously in a cacophonous uproar of excitement.

“Who thought up this torture?”

A woman took him by the arm to lead him through the crowd. “Oh, Frederick, dear, you are surprised, aren't you?”

“Horribly.”

“You see, your wife did remember you would be coming home today, so she wanted to throw you this welcome home party.”

“A party indeed.” He went around shaking the hands of the guests and giving them a well-practiced smile. “Madame. How do you do? Thank you. I'm delighted to see you, sir.” But after exchanging pleasantries and idle chitchat just long enough to not seem rude, he asked, “If you’d be so kind as to tell me where I can find my wife?”

Frederick didn’t bother to knock as he opened the door to the guest bedroom. You were powdering your face and putting in your earrings, but you saw him through the mirror’s reflection as he stood in the open doorway. “This is quite the welcome home party. Well, I hope I'm welcome, my dear. You look as if you were seeing a ghost.”

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“Quickly? I have the impression I'm too late. That object on my dining room table, I presume, is a cake. Champagne, all very fitting. I infer a lover. Make me acquainted with him.”

“He’s not here. It’s just a small gathering of our friends. After all, we don’t want a repeat of what happened at the last party we hosted, now do we, darling?”

Your small gathering of friends turned out to be a full house with well over a hundred people. And, since you were in charge of the invitations the second time around, it had an even larger turnout than the last party you hosted when you were newlyweds. You knew that, and he knew that too. Whatever game you were playing at, Frederick wasn’t amused.

“What are you doing in this room?”

“I'm going to sleep here.”

“Didn't you understand I wished someone to sleep on the same floor with me?”

“We can get one of the maids, Frederick, or perhaps we can get a dog.”

“‘We’? So long as I pay the bills, I'm running this house. Please remember you're a guest, my dear.”

“Well, if I am one, then please treat me like one, Frederick. Your guest prefers to sleep in this room, if you don't mind.”

“This is no time for humor. As it so happens, I do mind.” He gestured to a case of camellias on a side table. “Where did these flowers come from?”

You turned to him and spoke with the false spontaneity of a liar. “From Switzerland.”

“Who sent them?”

“I've forgotten the name of the florist. I think it's on the box.”

“I've seen it. I had the box brought to me. You know perfectly well what I mean. What person sent the flowers?”

“There wasn't any card.”

“In other words, you don't intend to tell me.”

“Frederick, I don't want to be disagreeable or unkind. I've come home to live with you again, here in the same house. But it can't be in the same way. I've been living my own life, making my own decisions for a long while now. It's impossible to go back to being treated like a child again. I don't think I'll do anything of importance that will displease you, but, dear, from now on you must give me complete freedom, including deciding what I wear, where I sleep, what I read...”

“Where did you get that dress?“

You were dressed for the occasion. You had changed into a dress that was very Italian, very chic, and exceedingly becoming. And not handpicked by your husband.

“I had it shipped in from New York today.”

You customized your dress with the camellias sent by your not so secret admirer, wearing them proudly close to your heart. When your monstrous husband clapped eyes on your new look, he was horrified. Desperate to re-assert his authority and to prevent his now glamorous wife from stealing the limelight, he told you to put on one of your old frocks for the party. After all, this party was for him, wasn’t it? If he was the guest of honor, shouldn’t his opinion have been taken into consideration?

“It's outrageous. Where's the dress I bought for you from Nassau?”

“I gave it away to Suzanne, the niece of a French stockholder. She was so grateful. Frederick, please be fair and meet me halfway.”

“On my first day home after such a long absence, and you behave like this. How much did that dress cost?”

“It was frightfully expensive. I'll tell you about it in the morning.”

“To whom did you charge it?”

“To whom I've always charged my clothes, Frederick.”

“And you expect me to pay for articles charged to me of which I do not approve?”

“Well, I could pay for it myself. I've saved quite a little money. I have about $5000.”

“$5000 won't last very long. Especially if your monthly allowance were to be discontinued. I'm sure you've always had everything in the world you want.”

“I haven't had independence.”

“That's it. That's what I want to talk about. Independence. To buy what you choose, wear what you choose, sleep where you choose. Independence. That's what you mean by it, isn't it? I make the decisions here, my dear. I'm willing you should occupy your old room. One of the maids will occupy the guest room next to the master bedroom for the time being and will perform a wife’s duties as well as a nurse's if you will not. That will give you a good chance to think over what I've said. I'm very glad to give a devoted wife a home under my roof and pay all her expenses, but not if she scorns my authority.”

“Well, I could earn my own living, Frederick. I've often thought about it. I could resume my job as a nurse and work in the hospital again or—”

“You may think that very funny. But I guess you'll be laughing out of the other side of your face if I did carry out my suggestion.”

“I don't think I would. I'm not afraid, Frederick.” As soon as you said it, it finally dawned on you. “I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid, Frederick.”

“Wife, sit down. I find all this very distasteful. Your dress isn’t what I wanted to discuss with you at all.”

“All right, I'll listen quietly. What do you wanna discuss with me?”

“I want you to know something I've never told you before. It's about my will. You'll be the most powerful and wealthy member of the Lannington family, if I don't change my mind. I advise you to think it over.”

As Frederick kept speaking, you understood the implications of his words, his thinly veiled threats of blackmail. You could leave and be with Louis, that was true. But he refused a divorce so you’d never be able to marry Louis so long as he lived. And if you left, he’d not only write you out of his will, he’d use his connections to expose Louis’ secrets regarding Stevenson’s death and the true parentage of the boy he publicly recognized as his to every newspaper across both America and Europe. It didn’t matter if any of it was true or not. It was the word of a millionaire with all the influence in the world against the word of a poor soldier. And money had such a persuasive way of talking. Every newspaper and tabloid, no matter how trashy, would pick up such a story, and bored housewives would be more than eager to spread such hot gossip in their circles, desperate for a break from their monotonous lives even if it meant living vicariously through the lives of others. Word would get around to men’s clubs and more, and It wouldn’t take long to destroy Louis’ future, as well as that of the boy. Of course, he’d keep silent if you would. He’d give you his word, only if you’d give him yours in return. Realizing that you had been tricked, you were fuming and seething. Your husband had you right where he wanted you, and you could do nothing about it. And he knew that.

“Tonight, when you came back, you told me I could go away with him. To get my hopes up. You had all this planned out from the beginning. Oh, you swine!”

“That is a very coarse expression coming from so smartly dressed a young woman. I'm referring to that handsome coat hanging neglected in your wardrobe.”

“Take it back then, you...” You took it off the hanger and threw it at him, but he was unfazed as it hit him. Your eyes were alight with indignation and hatred.

“I seem to remember the dress too! But restrain yourself, my dear. A servant might come in.”

“I never loved you. I tell you, I never loved you!”

“Of that there was never any question, my dear. But I can assure you, you’ve had many very good reasons for being grateful. So you're conceding to my terms. Well, I think that's wise. A scandal can be quite damaging to a career…and to a personal life.”

“You don't think that's why I'm agreeing.”

“The point's irrelevant. I can only hope that this shameful episode in your life is completely past. We best go down to your guests, Mrs. Lannington. You can have your fun tonight, enjoy your little party, but I’ve just decided I’ll be leaving for America on an impromptu business trip next week. It’s a good thing your bags are already packed, because I’ve also just decided you’re coming with me.” He wasn’t asking you. He was telling you. Before you could turn and storm away, Frederick reached out and grabbed your wrist in a tight grasp. A warning. “You know, darling, I'm very fond of you. And I might never have taken this step at all, if I hadn't discovered that… Well, after all, darling, a penniless French officer? I thought you had learned your lesson the first time a Frenchman came to this house uninvited. But it appears not. While I’m disappointed, I can’t say I’m surprised. First Captain Freycinet, and now this Captain Renault. You seem to have developed an…acquired taste for poor Frenchmen in uniform. You and your little two-timing heart. I can forgive you having an affair, but I can’t forgive you having such low standards in the men you take to your bed. Your taste in men, aside from me, is abysmal. Of course your being married to me made no difference to them. It never has.”

“Frederick, please do try to be fair.”

“Fair? Was it fair giving yourself to men like that?”

“That isn’t true. I was with Henri before I was with you, and he didn’t know I was married when he came to the house that night. Louis didn’t know either. He still doesn’t know.”

“You’d say that. You’d say anything to protect him.”

“Please don’t talk like that! Don’t you see it’s something none of us could help? He doesn’t know. He asked me to marry him—”

“He’d say anything to get his way.”

“You’re wrong. You’ve got to believe me!”

“Oh, I don’t blame you. I know that you were sincere. But Renault!”

“Frederick, Frederick! If you harm him, if anything happens to him, I shouldn’t care to live. I wouldn’t live. If you do anything to hurt him, anything at all, I will kill myself. I will turn my death into a grand public spectacle for the world to see. And then you’ll have a scandal worthy of your name.”

You wouldn’t let history repeat itself. You wouldn’t let Frederick lay a hand on Louis the same way he did Henri. If he so much as touched a hair on Louis’ head, you would follow through with your threat. Your suicide would get splashed on the front page of every major newspaper all across America and Europe, ensuring you’d have one last laugh over your husband from beyond the grave. His name would get dragged through the mud and he would be ruined into obscurity. His power over you hinged on his carefully constructed reputation, his public persona. His social influence was determined based not just on his money, but on what the public thought of him too. If you killed yourself in such a grandiose manner, you’d destroy everything he had painstakingly built over his lifetime within mere seconds, whether or not you left a note. Especially if you left a note. He’d lose everything. He’d have nothing. You’d ruin his life and reputation even in death. As Frederick stared into your eyes, there was a fire in them that he thought he distinguished years ago. He could tell you weren’t bluffing. He had no choice but to back down.

That year when your wife passed, I was thinking of going to the funeral. Frederick said he’d rather see me dead than hanging around Louis Renault again. Something about that woke something up inside of me. Because when we went our separate ways, it was fine because it was us, but who was he to keep us apart? So that night, I fought back.

You stood up for yourself and defied Frederick by knocking your party guests dead with your new look. As you went around the room and socialized, you grabbed some hors d'oeuvres from passing servers and didn’t care if it looked unladylike as you stuffed your face and asked William to replenish your depleted champagne glass whenever it was getting low. You were in a mood of determined gaiety as you watched and even joined in the merriment.

Then came the big finale a few hours later. Drawn in light upon the starry-black of night, fireworks interrupted the black, spreading pops of color as if the sky were a canvas awaiting ink of brilliant light. Right next to Heaven's stars were those blossoms of rainbow light. With the party guests once more enraptured, their eyes half closed against the minute points of dazzling reflections and accepted only by the kaleidoscopic shuttling of prismatic color, nobody paid attention to their hosts of the evening as they stayed behind. Partially obscured by the crowd, you appeared from the darkness, backing towards one of the white pillars of the terrace so that your face remained hidden as you stood next to your husband.

“Well, if we do have to leave, at least we gave a memorable farewell party,” Frederick said in a hushed tone, sipping from his champagne flute.

“I gave a memorable farewell party for you. I've instructed the maids to pack up all your things. Your essential things, at least, with enough money to get you on a boat back to America and out of my life.” Your voice matched his in volume, but your tone was firm. Final. Uncompromising.

“I thought I told you that we were leaving together.”

“No. You are leaving. Alone. And it’s clear to me that you don’t care about me at all, so I’m sending you away with your favorite person. Yourself.”

“This entire mess was as much your fault as was mine. If not more.” He raised his voice, now laced with agitation, but only slightly. Still nobody but you could hear him.

“Do you honestly expect anyone to believe that such a confident, well-spoken man needed a woman to help him manage his estate? A woman who’s a victim herself, having been a loving wife while her husband couldn’t keep his affairs in order and was embroiled in chronic infidelity that took place in her own house, in her own bedroom. There’s a record of it, husband. From now on, I’ll be the sole beneficiary and take full ownership of whatever’s left of my inheritance, as well as a fair share of your money to support myself. And I had Velma forge a signature on a document stating that since neither you nor I have any male next of kin, the estate shall pass to whomever I deem your successor, should I outlive you. Velma has excellent penmanship, you see. Your society, of course, will be infuriated to discover that you have abandoned me, your wife of many years, to run away to America with your money and your mistress.”

“You viper!”

“Never touch me again. You’re welcome to try to explain it to them, now that they're all gathered... And you’re not leaving any worse off than when you arrived. With nothing. Nothing but your cold hard cash, just as incapable of loving you as I am.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“I made my mistake years ago, when I married you.”

He chased me out of the house and into the woods. He was the one who brought the knife. It’s funny, Frederick’s the one that made me go to nursing school. That’s why I knew where his femoral artery was. Not sure if I hit it, but I left him out there. His body was never found. Maybe he crawled somewhere for help, maybe he died in those woods and was eaten by wild animals. You say you killed your family? I hope I killed mine. I hope you don’t hate me for what I did. I hope you can forgive me. I’m sorry I kept this from you for so many years after the fact, but I only just learned to come to terms with it and forgive myself.

Eternally yours xxxxxxx

It wasn't anything like what Louis expected. The farther down he read, the more his face showed his heart breaking for you, until it got to the point where it was excruciating to have to witness your suffering through your own words. What he experienced while reading your letter felt like a thousand tiny paper cuts in comparison to the living hell you endured. He couldn’t even begin to imagine it. You, locked in an ivory tower, subjected to daily cruelty which included punishment by scourges and flaying, the scourges being your husband’s tongue and the flaying being done by his hand. And then to have to go through it twice! You experienced it firsthand once and relived it again, all so you could relay your story to him through writing. By the time he reached the bottom of the page, his grief was joined by something else. Though he was shocked at your confession of killing a man, your own husband, he understood the position you were in and why you referred to it as “the very bad thing” in your previous letters. You were a victim of years of marital abuse and, though it wasn’t physical, it left scars all the same. Scars that took years to heal. And though those scars didn’t hurt you anymore when you thought of your husband, they were still there. They always would be. He thought back to when he received that phone call from you out of the blue years ago. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what you were saying or what your call meant. Everything about your voice felt…off. There was no better way to describe it.

“Hello? Yes?”

“Hello? Hello, Louis.”

“Darling! Oh, thank God. You’re alive. I’ve been so worried, your letters stopped coming and the hospital either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me anything about you or your whereabouts and I thought��� It’s been so long since I last heard from you. How did you get my number? Is there anything wrong?”

“I know. I’m sorry. The short of it is, I was forced to quit nursing. I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I can’t explain any of it now, but I promise I will. Someday. I know I can’t see you, but I just had to hear your voice. Oh, Louis. My sweet, darling Louis. I just wanted to hear you speak to me. I wish you could come to see me. I'm so lonesome here.”

“Sweetheart? Your voice sounds strange. Are you hurt? If you’re in any danger or difficulties, I cou—”

“No! No. No, I’m— Well, I’m not okay, but I’ll manage just fine on my own for now. We made our pact, and I still want us to live up to it. Darling, tell me now, have we lost our chance? Have you moved on and found someone else?”

“No, never.”

“You're not angry with me?”

“No. Only with myself. I was a cad to make you care for me and then, because of some noble sense of duty, to leave you to get over it the best you can. And there isn't a thing I can do about it. Madeleine still depends on me more and more. She's ill and getting worse. And there's Johnny. Even if I could chuck everything—”

“But I wouldn't let you, Louis. Louis, what's the feminine for your word? That's what I am. I knew you were married, and I walked right in with my eyes wide open. But you said it would make you happier.”

“And it has. I've found love again, and it's due to you.”

“I've been hoping you'd say that.”

“I have more understanding for Johnny. I'm even kinder to Madeleine. So don't blame yourself.”

“Then don't you.”

“It's different.”

“It's not. Shall I tell you what you've given me? On that very first day, a little bottle of perfume made me feel important. You were my first friend. And then when you fell in love with me, I was so proud. And when I came home, I needed something to make me feel proud. And your camellias arrived, and I knew you were thinking about me. I could've walked into a den of lions. As a matter of fact, I did, and the lions didn't hurt me. Please take back what you said.”

“If you can marry me and we can have a full and happy life someday, I will.”

“I'll try.”

After reading your letter, suddenly your past behavior made sense. Your reluctance to accept his proposal, wanting to wait until the war was over before you gave him an answer…your disappearance and cryptic letters… You must’ve been so afraid. You probably lived day in and day out in fear that your past would catch up with you and you’d be booked for the murder. You could’ve told him that you were widowed. You could’ve gone your whole life without ever telling him what transpired on the night of your husband’s death. You could’ve gone your entire life telling him you were unmarried and never mentioned Frederick at all. Whatever your story was, he wouldn’t have pried any further than what you told him. He didn’t need details about what happened or how Frederick died. You told him the truth about what happened that night because you trusted him with your deepest and darkest secret. You didn’t need to ask for his forgiveness for keeping this from him for so many years. There was nothing to forgive. It was your secret, and it was up to you to decide if you wanted to tell it or carry it to the grave. Just to be safe, he burned your incriminating letter in the fireplace. It would be kept between just the two of you. Nobody else would ever know. Not even Johnny or any other future family members.

Though reading your letters kept him sane and helped him to cope with his trauma and snap him out of his self-inflicted spiral of self-torture and rumination, he regretfully told you that he couldn’t be with you until his son came of age. He felt he had a duty to John that he needed to fulfill. He needed to focus on giving Johnny the best future he possibly could. Before Louis could allow himself to remarry, he needed to raise Johnny to be someone John would be proud of, a better man than even himself. He couldn’t explain his reasonings beyond that. He knew if you stood in front of him at the courthouse and married him now, he’d never be able to keep his hands off you. If he had the future with you that he wanted, he was certain you’d conceive a child before your first anniversary. As much as he wanted a child with you, he just wasn’t ready.

He knew that if you became pregnant, he’d be unable to love you and your child in the way that you both deserved to be loved. He wouldn’t be able to devote himself to either of you wholeheartedly, because he still felt like half of him died when John and Madeleine did. He made a promise to John, to Madeleine, to himself, and to Johnny. He needed to see it through. He couldn’t even think of romance or marriage until then. He wrote to you and reiterated that, while he wasn’t choosing to do this as a form of punishing either you or himself, he didn’t blame you if you couldn’t understand him or his reasons for purposely keeping himself away from you. He didn’t blame you if you didn’t want to wait for him. A long distance relationship was too much for most people to bear. He knew he was asking a lot from you by asking you to wait until Johnny was at least eighteen years old.

He was open and honest with you. He told you in no uncertain terms that, while he wouldn’t commit himself to or love any other woman apart from you, it was highly likely that he’d sleep around from time to time. He couldn’t survive on oxygen alone. He had to be surrounded by women. Although he’d sleep with them, he promised you that he wouldn’t lead them on. He’d take every precaution to ensure he didn’t father a bastard child with any of them. None of the women he’d take to his bed could ever hope to hold a candle to you. They’d be a means to an end, a distraction, a way for him to cope with his trauma, survivor’s guilt, and loneliness. He acknowledged that it may seem ironic and hypocritical of him, given how much his wife’s infidelity hurt him in the past. But he told you that, while Madeleine kept John like a dirty little secret, he wouldn’t do the same to you. He wouldn’t keep any secrets from you, no matter how long you were apart.

If you wanted to take other men as lovers, you were more than welcome to. Louis knew that, like himself, you couldn’t live on oxygen alone. You had to be surrounded by men. You could sleep with whoever you wanted and didn’t need his permission. He told you that, since you were so beautiful and so witty, all you’d have to do was just sit, and they’d come to you. You could have a line of lovers in zero time flat. Besides, he thought you’d handle them very well. He joked that it’d save him the trouble of sending flowers and candy. Louis was so open to it that he playfully encouraged you to write to him and tell him of your dates and outings, all your little erotic escapades. In return, he promised that he’d tell you about his. For you and Louis, your little dalliances with other people wouldn’t mean anything and you’d both make sure all the intimate partners you had knew that.

But he added that he’d understand if this was something you weren’t comfortable with and couldn’t agree to. He didn’t want to make you feel as if you were held to some obligation to him. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel as if you were wasting your life away by waiting around for him. You were still young, you could marry any man of your choosing. If you wanted to move on and find another man to spend the rest of your life with, he’d respect your decision. He didn’t want to be selfish and rob you of the chance to get pregnant and have children of your own if that was what you wanted. He wanted you to be happy, even if you found that happiness with another man. It’d hurt for a good long while and, although it’d never leave him completely, the pain would eventually numb until it became bearable. Not pleasant, but bearable. While he wouldn’t find another love after you, he’d want you to find love again even if it couldn’t be with him.

5 June 1924

…Bereavement, grief, comes in waves. Though it ebbs over time it sometimes still feels as if my soul needs to bleed an ocean through my eyes. Eyes that never blink, only watch the world continue in this numbing sense of sorrow. Sometimes when I think Madeleine and John have settled into my memories for another year, content to be silent, invisible, they come back, unannounced, to the forefront of my mind. Guilt will do strange things. Lock the truth in a cage and warp love into something strange and awful. Loving him meant I would have traded places in a heartbeat, fought until we either both lived or died. And so, for me, the mourning period didn’t offer me the catharsis I hoped for. Bereavement has been my companion these past few years, a shadow that, in time, has lessened until it’s all but gone. It doesn’t hurt anymore but it’s still there, transformed into something else. Where it once was, holding my hand like a vise, I find the flowers of happy memories with you instead. Where there was pain, so much pain, there’s now a form of joy and pride for whom John and I were and what we achieved together. While France is healing from the war, I’m healing alongside her, darling. I love you.

Louis xxx

12 August 1928

…I believe that when you meet your soulmate, the universe will show you the price of what you wish for. The real deal is never cheap. Those who will pay the price of emotional pain can learn what love is, can feel the blessing of true love. So, I ask you, is our love worth it? I believe it is. But do you? When I first met you, my darling Louis, I saw what was on the table and knew what the cost of your love was. But I didn’t balk or turn away, because I knew then that you were the one for me. While I’ll admit you aren’t the first man I’ve ever loved, I can promise you that you’ll be the last. While it wasn’t love at first sight and I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, there was a moment where I knew that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.

Our pathways may come together and separate again for months or, as you say, years. The kind of love we have is something we must pay for with personal struggle. Through no faults of our own, fate has asked us to wait for each other. Those who won't wait for their soulmate or take on any struggle can't have “the one”. But I’m willing and ready to wait for you because, sweet Louis, when we’re finally married, everything that we are will be shared just as it is now. Your struggles will be my struggles, my pain will be your pain, your joys will be my joys, and my happiness will be your happiness. So is it really so different than what we have now? Though I don’t have a ring or a signed piece of paper, in so many ways, I feel as if I’ve been your wife for years already. It comes down to whether or not you love me, and whether or not I love you. That’s it. The rest is just detail. And I do love you. So very, very much. And I know you love me in a way you thought you’d never love again. So we’ll be all right in the end. I’ll send you snaps and enclose them with my letters so you can see what I see, feel what I feel, love what I love. I hope you’ll show me the same courtesy. All my love, sweet Louis.

Patiently yours xxxxx

15 February 1932

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. I’ll kiss this crisp piece of paper I’m writing on and stain it with my favorite shade of lipstick so I can send you all my love and kisses, darling. The neighbors think I don’t hear them as they whisper and gossip about me. They think I'm a fool to wait and spend my days like I do. Eyes set to the horizon, arms resting on the cold metal rail, sitting alone on a park bench with my nose stuck in a book or my eyes downcast and scribbling away on sheets of paper as I write to you. I do so much more than just fritter away my time pining after you, my dearest. But they don’t see that. The way I see it, they're missing the greatest mysteries of life as they chase the mundane and trip over the minute details of existence. Waiting here gives me time to let my mind escape the boundaries of the ordinary, to think beyond the offerings of modern living. I ponder the threads that bind one person to another and the wounds that separate. I think about the origins of goodness and what humanity really is. Waiting here while others do important things is such a gift, a blessing of time. I would give up an eternity of tedium to simply solve a great mystery. All my love, sweet Louis.

Patiently yours xxxxx

17 July 1936

It's sunny today, around eighty-five degrees. Sky’s blue and clear and beautiful. I took a walk through the botanical garden. Followed the same path Henri and I walked down when we were all young and in love. It made me laugh thinking how nervous he was. His palms were sweating so bad I'd thought he was going to pass out! He was just too cute. Well, I'm sure you're tired of that story by now. I just keep thinking about that walk and what it would be like if you were the one beside me. I'd give anything to go back there, to show you all of my favorite spots. The sun doesn't seem as bright without you today but, when I close my eyes, its warmth makes me feel like you're here with me. Don't worry about a thing. Just think about the big hug I'll be giving you when you and I meet. I love you with every breath, my wonderful Louis.

Patiently yours xxxxx

[free-for-all-fics]

So… What was supposed to be a much shorter prompt for Captain Renault developed a mind of its own and became a crossover prompt/story the length of a novella. Whoops. But I regret nothing. It’s a fitting end before I take a long break from Casablanca to focus on other movies! Don’t fret though! I’m not gonna stop writing for Louis Renault entirely, just any future prompts he’ll be in will be crossovers while I dip into other Claude Rains characters! This is part 1 of 3! Buckle up because this is my attempt at a slow burn and told through a partial epistolary format. Not every plot point is told in chronological order. The narrative mostly takes place in the past but occasionally jumps around with flash forwards and flashbacks interspersed.

Content warning: Majority of this story/prompt takes you through a fictionalized portrayal of World War I and some aftermath, neither of which are depicted in a way that would get approved under the Hays Code. World War II is also discussed, but not in nearly as great of detail because I was running out of steam. It will get dark and heavy at points, but there will be light at the end of the tunnel. I promise. That being said, this story/prompt contains mentions and depictions of adultery, violence (the kind of violence that comes with war but also a Claude character beats another Claude character with a blunt object in part 2) death, murder, verbal/domestic abuse, threats, blackmail, sickness, trauma, depression, pregnancy. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. There might be more that I’m forgetting. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! ⚕️🤍

You’re enjoying a quiet day at home with your husband and daughter when she finds old photos from your time during World War I and World War II. Neither you nor your husband have looked at these photos in what feels like ages. She asks, more like begs, for you to tell her about what it was like for you during those time periods. You’ve told her abridged versions before, but you thought it’d be too long and boring for her when she was growing up and kept it limited to only the parts that were appropriate for a child to hear. She’s an adult and old enough to appreciate it now, so you and your husband decide to finally tell her the entire story.

The increased militarization of Europe and the lack of negotiations between major powers led to harsh and rash actions taken by both sides in respect to Alsace-Lorraine during World War I. As soon as war was declared, both the French and German authorities used the inhabitants of Alsace-Lorraine as propaganda pawns. Germans living in France were arrested and placed into camps by French authorities. German authorities developed policies aimed at reducing the influence of the French. In Metz, French street names, which had been displayed in French and German, were suppressed in January 1915. Six months later, on 15 July 1915, German became the only official language in the region, leading to the Germanization of the towns' names effective 2 September 1915. Prohibiting the speaking of French in public further increased the exasperation of some of the natives, who were long accustomed to mixing their conversation with French language. Still, the use even of one word, as innocent as "bonjour", could incur a fine. Although the both of you were posted outside of Alsace-Lorraine, you were all too aware of the tensions that were rising between the Germans and the French, fueled by hate and fear. It wasn’t just the Alsace-Lorraine region that was affected, it was happening in other places all across Europe.

You tell your daughter that, while all this history may seem irrelevant at first, it’s important that you properly set the stage so she can fully grasp the seriousness of your situation. You, a German woman, and your husband, a Frenchman, befriended each other and later fell in love. That may seem inconsequential now, but back then, it was anything but.

Had it been like it was in the “old days” before Florence Nightingale, countless of otherwise perfectly strong and healthy men would’ve died. Back in those days, hygiene was neglected, medicines were in short supply, there was no equipment to process food for the patients, and poor care was being delivered to wounded soldiers by overworked medical staff in the face of official indifference. With overcrowding, defective sewers and lack of ventilation, ten times more soldiers died from illnesses such as typhus, typhoid, cholera, and dysentery than from battle wounds. Mass infections were common, many of them fatal.

But the First World War represented a turning point in the history of war and medicine. For the first time in a major modern conflict, doctors were able not just to treat and save the lives of hundreds of thousands of sick and wounded military personnel, they managed also to make unprecedented numbers of injured and diseased soldiers fit enough to return to the front lines to fight again. This was in part thanks to important developments in surgery and medical science – particularly advances in wound management, fracture and nerve injury treatment, bacteriology and immunology. But it was also the result of a gradual revolution in the organization and administration of wartime medical care – something to which most governments and armed forces were by now giving a great deal of attention.

Despite the many, many improvements since Nightingale’s time, your hospital wasn’t perfect nor were the people working there infallible. The working conditions for nurses overseas were generally poor. Typically, nurses had to adjust to many things that were uncomfortable or limited their ability to provide care. Long hours (14- to 18-hour shifts), extreme cold, and poor weather conditions were just a few of the adjustments that needed to be made, along with seeing and treating severe and often horrifying injuries with minimal equipment. Though considerably less, your hospital still had the occasional case of negligence on the ward. It was your duty and your mission to make sure that everything was kept clean and procedures were conducted in the correct manner to prevent infection. Your goal was to make sure that all the patients were comfortable and recovered quickly. Your passion was to look after people and to make them well again, and laziness you couldn’t abide. You had a duty to stamp out any traces of negligence and to intervene at the first sign something was wrong. Anything from an overworked nurse to a lookalike medication or patients with the same name mixup, you and your sisters on the ward all had a responsibility to watch each other’s backs and do everything in your power to prevent easy mistakes from being made before they became fatal mistakes.

You first met Louis Renault in November 1915. He had been posted abroad with the French Army and fractured his right leg below the knee during his service. He was sent to the hospital you worked at for medical treatment and put under your charge. At the time, the both of you were already married to other people. You were estranged from your husband. Louis, in contrast, was content in his marriage. He at least had a spouse who cared enough to write to him and loved her enough to write her back. He thought she was the love of his life.

You show your daughter one of the old journals belonging to Louis, in which he meticulously logged his major life events. You flip to the page where he wrote of his engagement, as this could be considered the very beginning of what would later become your love story. The ink is faded in spots, but still legible.

19 March 1912

Today is a day to celebrate! At long last, the woman I love has agreed to give me her hand in marriage. I must begin preparing for her arrival at once! I'll gladly change every fixture and fitting in the house so that she feels at ease. I'm also commissioning a special dress to be made for her. She's going to look stunning in it. I just know it.

When war was first declared in 1914, the reality of the situation didn’t immediately sink in for Louis. He knew that he was eligible for service and there was a high chance his name would be selected from the local ballot. He knew that he had only hours left to spend with Madeleine, his young wife, before he was forced to leave her behind to hold down the fort on the home front. But he kept these thoughts to himself and spent as much time as he could with her, hardly letting her out of his sight or out of his embrace for even a second. He doted on her, spoiled her, nearly smothered her in his affections and made love to her almost every day like he normally would.

The romantic that he was, he played his role and happily fulfilled his husbandly duties at home…until he received his conscription notice and couldn’t play pretend anymore. A single sheet of paper held so much weight. It forced him to face the reality that he had another duty, a duty to his country. After he was shipped out, he looked back on those last days spent with Madeleine and came to the realization that he made love to her and acted in a way indicative of how a man would if he was uncertain whether he’d survive or not. He never wanted it to be goodbye sex with her but there he was, subconsciously trying to use his body language to say goodbye without using words, in case he came home in a wooden box or didn’t come home at all.

The separation was extremely hard for the both of them. He missed his wife terribly, so much so that he nearly became physically ill from homesickness. She became lonely and wasn’t the same vibrant young woman that he once knew. He could tell this just by the change in the tone of her letters. The way she wrote, the words she used. In the years that followed, she became much more withdrawn and depressed. He did everything he could to comfort her and be there for her, but he couldn’t just abandon his post and she knew that. But phone calls and letters simply weren’t enough for her. Their marriage ultimately became much more subdued In the long run.

Your husband hadn’t bothered to write since you first began your training, citing that he had to go to Mexico on business then back to America. Before you left for your training, he told you over dinner that he’d be gone a long time and you wouldn’t see him very often. You weren’t surprised nor disappointed. He only confirmed your earlier suspicions that he wanted you out of the house and had ulterior motives behind his decision. But you were relieved. You had an extremely unhappy marriage and felt like a massive weight was lifted off your shoulders in your husband’s absence. You were free from the prying eyes and eavesdropping ears of both him and the servants, free from the stifling atmosphere of the cold and pretentious mansion. You no longer had to walk on eggshells out of fear of bringing embarrassment to your husband or jeopardizing his carefully constructed reputation. Here you could finally be yourself and stop putting on airs of being a great lady or happy wife. Though you had no say in it, in some zigzagged way, your husband gave you your name back and, with it, you had some grain of independence back. Whether he intended it to be that way or not, it was the greatest gift your husband ever gave you.

“You know, in some strange way, I feel closer to you than I ever have to anyone in my whole life. Do you understand that?”

“I think so.”

“You know that I'm married. I cannot ask anything from you but your friendship. But that would be very precious to me.”

“And to me, too.”

And so you became friends. With Louis, everything was new and fresh and wonderful. What he liked, you liked. A poem you loved before became twice as magical to you because Louis loved it too. While he was recovering from his leg fracture, he began to worry when he still hadn’t received word from his wife. He kept writing her almost daily, but nearly two months passed and still nothing came for him while he was in hospital. It became harder and harder for him to keep his thoughts at bay the longer he went without a peep from her. His letters not being returned to sender was of little comfort, but knowing that they were at least getting to her gave him the tiniest sliver of hope. Laid up in bed, he could do little else besides read and write in his journal. Maybe if he was just patient and waited long enough…

9 January 1916

I don't know how many weeks have passed, waiting to hear back from her. It's been so long, in fact, that I can barely remember even sending my last letter. I’m beginning to suspect that my letters never made it to her. Or worse still, what if she’s ignoring them or throwing them on the fire to burn? Oh, my dear Madeleine, just to hear from you is all I desire. Just a kind word from you to put an end to my inner turmoil is all I ask for. Maybe she really doesn't love me. Maybe she's happily living a brand new exciting life, getting romanced by other men. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. The drugs I’m being injected with numb the pain but make me drowsy. I can barely keep my eyes open. I need to stop writing now.

Louis developed a fever as his body attempted to heal itself. He experienced vivid fever dreams that felt almost like real memories, but weren’t. In his dreams, people all around town fell ill with a disease that had no name yet. Tourists and locals alike spread rumors that France had fallen victim to a silent but effective attack of biological warfare, while others called it a karmic curse brought upon them by their own hubris. In his nightmares, he couldn’t even think of leaving, still under the thumbs of his superiors and bound by his duties in the French Army. The thought of being forced to stay and keep fighting would’ve been more daunting and disturbing were it not for his wife. As long as she was waiting for him and safe at home, he believed he had the strength to see through till the end of the war. But his fever dreams always started and ended the same way:

It was a gorgeous early summer day. The sun was shining brightly, the birds were singing, and there was a warm gentle breeze. He came home early, expecting a kiss from his beautiful wife, and instead found her in the process of writing a Dear John letter. Sometimes she’d be writing to her lover and telling him of her upcoming nuptials, and other times she’d be writing to Louis and telling him of her affair and her desire to divorce him so she could marry the man she truly loved. Even after he woke up in a cold sweat, he still remembered the words on the half-written page so vividly that he logged them in his journal before he forgot:

Dear John,

I received your letter— glad to hear from you. We have been corresponding for some time together. This is very hard to tell you, but I know you’ll understand. I hope we’ll always remain friends, but it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve become engaged to another man. Now we will have to quit our corresponding to each other and I shall have to say farewell to you, my darling. As there was not any promise of marriage made between you and I, I feel at perfect liberty. If you’re in want of a reason, I would just say to you that I was afraid you would never come back; you are away up North, exposed to death, disease, and a smashing of your teeth on them hard crackers. After the war is over, I hope for a world where we may live in peace and safety.

But until that day comes, I must accept the security that wedlock has offered me. I leave the subject with you. I cannot stay with you or ever see you again, but I can only hope that you will understand some small measure of my conflict, and someday forgive me for my actions. Remember that however much I may appear to love him as a wife, it will never come close to amounting to the love I’ll always hold for you, my darling. Though my hand will be his, my heart will always be yours.

Madeleine xxx

Dear Louis,

I received your letter— glad to hear from you. We have been corresponding for some time together. Now we will have to quit our corresponding to each other, as I wish to be joined in wedlock with the man I’ve truly been dreaming of. I believe we are right together. We see no reason to delay in the inevitable. I wish to begin the divorce proceedings as soon as possible. I leave the subject with you. I know it’s not the welcome home you’d been hoping for, but putting it off and continuing this facade of a happy marriage would only be unfair and cause more unnecessary pain to you and I. If you’re in want of a reason, I would just say to you that I was afraid you would never come back; you are away up North, exposed to death, disease, and a smashing of your teeth on them hard crackers. Becoming a war widow is such a ghastly prospect, I can’t bear to even entertain the thought for a second. I really do my best to not think of it at all. I cannot stay with you or ever see you again, but I can only hope that you will understand some small measure of my conflict, and someday forgive me for my actions.

Oh, Louis. I'm sorry. So desperately sorry. I'm so grateful to you, and so proud, and fond of you. I don't know why I can't love you the way you want me to. I've tried, God knows, but I can't change my feelings. And it'll be a lie to say I do if I don't. I’m sorry, Louis. I’m really sorry I can’t love you as a wife should love her husband. You should be loved in the way that you want, in the way that you deserve, but I’m not the woman who can give you that kind of love. I hope someday you can find her, the special woman who can. She’s out there somewhere, waiting for you. I know it.

As for me, I shall have to say farewell to you, my dear. Though I do wish we could have parted friends. I so very much want to feel that you're happy for me. As I'd be happy for you, my darling. Remember: However much I love him as a wife, I will always love you as a friend. Stay safe and be happy, my darling, and God bless you.

Madeleine xxx

In his nightmares, Louis had no control over his words or his actions as he snatched the sheet of paper from Madeleine’s hand and began interrogating her as if she were a prisoner of war. He demanded an explanation but he never got one that was satisfactory. In the moment, he was confused, heartbroken, and angry all at once.

“But you and I are married! How can you just leave me here? I won't have it!”

“This whole city is cursed. If we remain here, all those dear to me will die.”

“Am I not dear to you, Madeleine? Stay with me, and we'll make it through the war together. We’ll rebuild our lives and start anew elsewhere once the war ends, if that’s what you want. I promise you!”

“I’m sorry, Louis. It wouldn’t make a difference where we’d go because I could never go with you.”

“Why not?”

“A journey like that? It’s impossible.”

“Tell me something, my dear. Ever since I got back, I’ve had a feeling that you were very far away from me. Have I changed so much?”

“We both changed. It seems centuries since we were married. Since I knew you.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that. But can’t we find those old selves again?”

“I’ve tried, Louis. I’m afraid they’re gone.”

“You did love me when you married me.”

“I thought I did.”

“Is there someone else?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Louis, but there's someone else I love who needs me even more than you."

“I’ve sensed that. But I— Oh, well, I hoped against hope. Is that the real reason you want to go? Because there's someone else? Why didn’t you tell me so at once?”

“I thought I’d never tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Do you think it hurts any the less now?”

“I’m deeply sorry, Louis. I wish it could’ve worked out differently. I wish it with all my heart.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What’s his name?”

“Does it matter?”

“What’s his name.” He was no longer asking. He was demanding. He had been crossed, and his expression hardened into iron. His smile seemed more the result of a frozen face muscle than a cheerful disposition. He wasn’t Louis, her husband, in that moment. He was Renault, a hardened Captain of the French Army.

“Louis—”

“I have to know it eventually.”

His fever dreams were often unpleasant but never revealed the name of the man his wife was seeing behind his back. His mind was always too foggy. While he didn’t think he’d ever talk to Madeleine in such a harsh or cruel manner, he felt unsettled by what he saw. He was just a Lieutenant and didn’t have the rank of Captain yet, but his dreams showed him as a leader. Was he experiencing prophetic dreams that gave him glimpses into his future? He didn’t want to think about it.

When Renault awoke again, you were in his room. He didn’t move a muscle except for his eyes, which followed your every move as you went about your work. When he was first admitted, you asked him to tell you how he ended up with the fracture in his leg, as it looked to be very painful. He told you the entire story about how he ended up in your hospital. He left out no detail, no matter how gruesome. As a war nurse, he assumed you were experienced enough to have seen it all, and he was right. You treated numerous types of wounds, as well as infections and mustard gas burns. Bullet wounds and outdoor exposure, combined with the added hardship of not having antibiotics, made for risky work. You and your fellow nurses were also faced with soldiers suffering from emotional injuries, including shell shock. Some of you were trained in social work, including psychiatric training, in order to help current soldiers and those returning home deal with their experiences.

From what he told you, it sounded terrifying. You’d seen many soldiers come through hospital with similar injuries to his, but they unfortunately didn’t survive. In the early days of World War I, if a soldier suffered a broken femur, at best, he would endure incredible pain and a high probability of infection of his wounds during his extraction from the battlefield. If the fracture was compound (where the bone pierced the skin), there was a greater chance such men would die from the resulting blood loss and infection. In the horrendous conditions on the Western Front, combat medics and stretcher bearers struggled to dress broken legs and transport the patients back behind the lines to casualty clearing stations for treatment without causing further damage and immense pain. The standard method of splinting fractured limbs was not simple or fast enough to be performed in a lot of combat situations.

The Thomas Splint revolutionized the manner in which men injured in the First World War were treated. It was easy to use and highly effective. It allowed access to wounds for dressing and cleaning, while immobilizing the limb, reducing pain and the risk of further damage and severe haemorrhage. It was comprised of a ring that encircled the top of the thigh at the hip joint, and two sturdy wires that ran down the length of the leg on either side, joining at the ankle or below the foot. It could be applied quickly on the battlefield without removing clothing or boots, before lifting a patient onto a stretcher, making for safer and less painful transportation to medical care. These types of wounds needed patience and time, which the Thomas Splint could help with.

You disparaged those practitioners who didn’t take care to achieve accurate alignment, as they got nervous after a number of weeks and interfered with ‘delayed union’, as you liked to call it, which could lead to a permanent disability. Ideally, a team of three was required to apply the splint (an operator and two assistants) but it could be undertaken by just two members of the team, if necessary. There were twelve different stages in the application of the splint, which all served to make the patient as comfortable as possible – including the last stage of applying hot water bottles. The main goal of that was to be able to move the patient without causing him pain, or any further damage to the injured part. Teams practiced the application blindfolded, so they would be able to perform this function at night and in times of poor visibility.

The timing of when Renault suffered his injury linked nicely with the idea that treatment for fractured femurs had started to improve by that point. You told Renault that he was very, very brave and lucky to be alive. He was fortunate that hospitals had adopted the Thomas Splint, otherwise it was very likely he would’ve lost his leg to infection and amputation, rather than explosion or falling from a great height. Just the other day you had a young soldier who had a very non-fatal wound and, because of incompetence and negligence, that wound became infected. You were quick to assuage Renault’s fears by assuring him that the soldier was perfectly fine but, because of the infection, you had to use more resources and more staff to look after him which, of course, put strain on everybody else.

You were determined to keep Renault in one piece while he convalesced. He wouldn’t be subjected to limb amputation under your watch. You knew that he was a fighter and, thanks to that splint which stabilized his fracture and prevented infection, it looked to you that his leg was healing up very nicely. You did everything in your power to let him know that he was in the best hands when you were looking after him. You scooted your chair closer to his bedside but asked for his permission before you leaned in and invaded his personal space a little bit to get a better look at him. You noticed beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, shining like diamonds in the lamplight. He seemed to look a little bit flushed in the face and, when you felt his brow, it confirmed for you that he had the start of a fever coming. How long had he felt feverish? Two days? Had he told anybody about this? He did? Had anything been done? Had the doctor given him medicine? Nothing had been done? Oh, dear. He had been suffering so.

Your ward had some very serious supply issues because of the war. The supplies hadn’t been getting to you promptly and this obviously caused you and your fellow nurses and doctors some distress on the ward because you couldn’t give the patients and the injured the right things that they needed and, of course, like Renault himself, fever set in and then you had to work even harder to break that fever. You managed to find a very small tincture of tonic for him. It wasn’t a full dose but it was the best that you could do. At least it would provide him with some comfort at least for the next twenty-four hours or so. You warned him that it was bitter stuff and tasted awful, but you promised that it would make him feel better. You told him that it should hopefully break his fever or, at least, make it feel like it for a day or so. Wishing to get it over with as quickly as possible, Renault downed it like a shot of brandy and quickly swallowed before he had a chance to really taste it on his tongue. You told him how well he was doing and how proud of him you were. The worst part was hopefully over now.

You asked if he was quite comfortable and, when he responded in the affirmative, you asked if he had any family. That’s when he first started telling you about Madeleine, his young wife back home. While he was bedridden, he showed you pictures and told you everything about her. She was a beautiful young woman who was many years younger than himself. In fact, she was closer to your age than his own. Despite their age gap, he spoke of her with such love and reverence that you could tell she meant the world to him. He adored her very much, but their marriage hadn’t produced any children.

“How wonderful! Well, you’ll be seeing her very, very soon once your wound heals up. It looks like it’s very much on its way! Once your fever breaks then I’m sure that you’ll be sent back to France swiftly to be reunited with your wife. You must miss her very much. You’ve been stationed here an awfully long time. Well, to be here all this time and only now just become injured, I would say that you’re a very good soldier and very lucky too. Now let’s reapply this bandage on your leg so that this won’t be quite so unpleasant as before. But you just tell me if it hurts at all.”

Wanting Renault to sleep as soon as possible, you fetched some cool water and a clean cloth to bathe his forehead. He still seemed quite flushed and a bit sweaty, so you wanted to provide him some relief from his fever by just cooling his face down until the medicine kicked in. You knew that it was no fun for anyone to feel feverish and sweaty when trying to fall asleep, and sleep was the most important part of recovery. It allows our bodies and minds to relax, which is very helpful in the healing of our bodies of any wounds, as well as our mental and emotional wellbeing. He closed his eyes and you encouraged him to think of his wife back in France. You wondered aloud what she was up to and told Renault that he was doing a great service by being here fighting for his country. You bathed his face, his forehead, and the back of his neck, all while continuing to tell him that everyone was so proud of him, proud of everything that he did for them. You were all proud, so very, very proud and thankful. He and men like him kept you all safe from your enemies and allowed you to live in peace and safety. He had sacrificed so much and you were truly thankful.

Renault looked to be on the verge of falling asleep at any moment, his eyes drooping and closing before reopening just slightly, but just for a few moments so he could tell you that he was feeling a little bit better. He grabbed your hand and stopped you from moving away when you made to get up. His brown eyes, though tired, looked at you imploringly. He was too drowsy to speak coherently and he slurred his words, but you could tell that he wanted you to stay. Though he knew he needed rest more than anything, he didn’t want to fall asleep just yet. The fever must’ve been making him a bit muddled since he acted in a way as if he was afraid that, if he fell asleep, he’d never wake up again. It’s a behavior you’d seen all too often in patients afflicted by fever.

“Oh, my dear, don’t be afraid. I am never too far away. As long as you can see my lamp, then you know that I’m around and, should you need me for anything else, all you have to do is call my name and I’ll come and assist you. Now is there anything else that I can do for you before I move onto the next patient?”

In a spur of the moment, he held your face between his hands and pulled you in for a kiss. It happened so suddenly that you didn’t have time to overthink it because it was over as soon as it began. With that, he finally closed his eyes and released you, seemingly drifting off to sleep seconds later. Though the kiss came as a shock to you, you didn’t think too much of it. Renault was feverish and probably out of his mind with delirium. The line between dream and reality was probably so blurred that he mistook you for his wife for a moment. You doubted he’d remember it in the morning, so you just washed your hands and took other precautions to make sure he wouldn’t get you sick. The last thing you wanted to do was put other patients at risk. Unbeknownst to you, Renault was still awake, though barely. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of your voice and your fingers turning pages as you scribbled down notes on his chart, he could’ve sworn he felt you lean over him and kiss his forehead. Maybe he was already asleep and dreaming, maybe he was just imagining things due to the fever, but he thought he heard your voice whisper in his ear,

“Now sleep, darling. The doctor will be back tonight.”

But what nobody knew was that, just mere days later, his world had been turned upside down by a letter from his wife. Although initially happy to receive the correspondance, as he continued to read, Louis realized that the letter she sent wasn’t intended for him. From the contents of the letter, he discovered that Madeleine had been cheating on him with John Stevenson, a family friend from England who joined the British Army. This was only made possible because Madeleine, who had been writing to the two men in secret, had accidentally placed this most recent correspondence into the envelope addressed to him. An easy mistake to make, but a damning one.

The revelation was especially hurtful to Louis because he was the one that had introduced Madeleine to John in the first place. He had frequently seen the pair chatting animatedly at social get-together's but, up until that moment, he had always dismissed these interactions as a close friendship or even motherly affection on Madeleine’s part. In hindsight, Louis realized that he had been foolish to think that. Not only were John and Madeleine closer to each other in age, they also shared many interests. It was only natural that an attraction would develop between them. Once he finished reading the damning letter, he folded it, placed it back in the envelope and safely put it in his breast pocket. He’d probably need it for evidence once he began the divorce proceedings - if he began the divorce proceedings - and he didn’t want to risk it being destroyed. The safest place for it was on his person.

Nearly three years out there in that hell of loneliness, thinking always of her. Thinking he couldn’t die because she’d never know how much he loved her. Didn’t she know what it meant when he received her letter after enduring such a long silence? How he wanted to hurry back to the happiness he’d missed, only to find it gone. Stolen from him, stolen! All for this…this ridiculous notion of calf love. This... Why, he showed her what life was. He showed her love and he gave her understanding. Was this infatuation so precious to her that she could turn her back on understanding? Oh, he knew he wasn’t a youth. He wasn’t a savage, a little wavy hair... Why should he have denied it her?

Although devastated and justifiably furious by his discovery, Louis decided not to confront John nor Madeleine about their affair. That being said, he refused to forgive them either. Louis, not yet willing to give up on his marriage, quietly blamed John for seducing his wife and thought about waiting for an opportunity to not only get revenge but to remove his traitorous friend from the equation. John ruined his life, so he thought about taking his. But these revenge fantasies were intrusive thoughts that only lasted for a brief moment and he quickly thought better of it.

21 January 1916

Oh, this wretched life of mine! Madeleine, the woman I loved and to whom I am married, has been unfaithful to me with John Stevenson, a man I always thought of as a dear friend and confidant. Now I don’t know what to think of him. Or her. Did she never love me at all? Why wasn’t I good enough for her? What does John have that I don’t? From just one letter I can tell this has been an ongoing affair. This wasn’t just a one-time event, a lapse in my wife’s judgment brought on by loneliness and anxiety. That I could forgive. This has been a conscious decision from the both of them. Knowing what they did, I don’t know if I could stand to look at either of them if they stood in front of me now. Maybe they’d be too ashamed and wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye either.

It may seem vindictive and petty to think such things, but a part of me hopes they felt guilty for doing it and were thus prevented from enjoying their first time together in our marital bed. If they felt guilty to the point of denying themselves pleasure and being unable to find that release it would mean that, even in its smallest measurement, they cared about me, about my feelings. They had to have known what they were doing was a betrayal of my trust. Do they still feel guilty? No matter which way I look at it, their deceit cuts me to the core. Now I'm lost. Where do I go from here? What's left for me? I can’t go home once the war is over, can I? No. They love each other. She’ll leave me for him, and they’ll take the house. There will be no home to go back to. Not for me. I know it.

It was a war healer's duty to patch the wounds of the soldiers they encountered. But the war felt endless, almost pointless and, after Madeleine’s betrayal, a certain contrarian Renault enjoyed dashing your hopes. He became cynical, jaded, and defeatist, but you were the only person he trusted enough to confide in about his wife’s infidelity with his friend, so you knew his sudden change in attitude and personality was due to his grieving. You wouldn’t let his pessimism and bleak outlook on life get to you, however. Though he was stubborn and tried to fight you on it, you strictly upheld a fixed limit on how much he could drink and smoke per day. This was an extremely stressful time for the both of you. Renault said some rather nasty things to you that don’t bear repeating, but you stood your ground. You wouldn’t let him recklessly jeopardize his health in his vain attempts to numb his emotional and mental pain.

He could insult and cuss you out all he liked, you weren’t going to give in to his demands. You weren’t going to let him kill himself. Too many good men had died already. You instead helped him find better coping mechanisms during this difficult time. Even if he refused your help at first, you never gave up on him. He wasn’t just your patient, he was your friend. And you didn’t want to abandon your friend while he was hurting. He later apologized to you for what he put you through. His emotions, though justified, were misplaced and he wrongfully took it out on you. You forgave him. You knew he wasn’t a bad person. He was a good man underneath it all.

When the doctor later gave him a physical examination, nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. The swelling and inflammation seemed to have gone down. There were no signs of infection or nerve damage that would impair his ability to walk or run in the long-term, but he still had some healing to do before he’d be able to get up and move normally again. Or at least, that’s what the doctor tried to tell him.

“You're in pretty good shape. For once the Germans failed to shoot par for the course.”

“I wonder why. By now according to the rules, I should be floating in the bay or lying in a mass grave somewhere.”

“Maybe they were horrified at the sight of blood. Why don't you ask your nurse why they didn't dispose of you?”

“I already asked her.”

“And she didn't know a thing?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nothing.”

“This place has really made you sick. She's actually trying to help me.”

“Last night the nurse came and told me to put you back together again. A woman like her? That's something else again.”

“Ah, you drunken... Doc?”

“Yes?”

“How am I?”

“How are you, or how are you if anyone asks me?”

“How am I if anyone asks?”

“Non-displaced transverse fracture in the right leg. You won't be up for some time.”

“Thanks.”

With that, Louis put on a robe and grabbed a pair of crutches as he got out of bed against medical advice. He wandered the hospital in search of you and, when he found you alone in a supply room, he quickly shut and locked the door. If anyone else saw either of you alone together in a supply closet, you would’ve gotten into so much trouble.

“There’s something I wouldn’t talk about while there was a chance I’d be half-crippled. You have to know I love you.”

“That’s enough, Renault.” You made to leave, but he stopped you.

“No, please wait!”

“I’ve got to take you to the x-ray room.”

“You don’t need an x-ray. I’m telling you the important thing that’s going on inside me right now. That first night here, I remember your face as I went down to the anesthetic. It was your face that smiled at me as I woke up.”

“All patients think they’re in love with their nurses.”

“This isn’t that kind of stuff. Believe me, I know. I’ve been around a lot. I’m glad I have, otherwise I wouldn’t know the real thing now that I’ve met it.”

“I think you better have another nurse, Renault. I’ll speak to Matron.”

“So will I. I’ll tell her I’ll shoot any other nurse on sight.”

No longer ailed by a fever, his mind was clear and he was fully aware of what he was doing as he grabbed you up in his arms and kissed you with such fervor. Though you tried to refuse him and push him away, your resistance didn’t last very long. You gave in and reciprocated his kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck and curling your fingers in his hair. While you both may have thought what you were doing was wrong, your guilty consciences weren’t enough to stop you. Neither of you allowed for doubt or regret to set in because you didn’t want it to. Such thoughts were kept at the very back of your minds. But you still pulled away to admonish him. He shouldn’t have been up and about just yet! He needed more rest! The doctor made it clear that he needed to stay in bed for the time being until his cast was ready to be removed. His wandering around the hospital without at least notifying a nurse first was so dangerous. He could’ve slipped and fell or otherwise hurt himself even further.

But he silenced your admonishments with more kisses. In between kissing you, he teased you that you were a nurse, so this was him notifying you that he was up and wandering the halls. He insisted that he felt better than he ever had before, that he was made of tougher stuff than you gave him credit for. He could survive anything so long as he felt loved by you, even those pains that exploded within, those silent hand grenades. With your kindness and compassion, he could endure it. When you smiled at him you were a bandage that wrapped around his body, heart, and soul, piecing him back together again finer than any surgeon could’ve done.

With his marriage falling apart and the whole world crumbling around his ears, Renault, who wanted you to drop the formality of calling him by his rank or surname and call him Louis, chose this time to fall in love with you. It was you who ultimately helped mend his broken heart and helped him to see from a new perspective. His marriage wasn’t a waste of time nor a failure. Divorce wasn’t an admittance of failure. He wasn’t a failure. He needed to figure out a way to go about getting a divorce from Madeleine so that he could be free to be with you without causing anyone involved in this complicated affair unnecessary pain or hardship. Louis did end up walking with a slight limp after his treatment. However, that was a much better outcome than that which other men had to deal with. There was no loss of life or limb in his situation. You believed that, with physical therapy and time, his limp would be corrected.

“No, really, why didn’t you come?”

“Was it so urgent?”

“Terribly. Can you stand a bit of shocking news?”

“Please, tell me the worst.”

“Are you sure you’re prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. Here it is: I’m well. They’re kicking me out of hospital today.”

“Today?”

“Fit for duty with a week’s leave recommended.”

“You must be very glad after all these months.”

“I suppose I should be glad. It’s your fault that I’m not.”

“Where are you going for your leave?”

“I’m not going. I’m staying here. Do you mind?”

“Why should I?”

“You shouldn’t. You should try to look pleased.”

“Should I? You really ought to go now.”

It was inevitable that you both had to return to your duties, but that didn’t stop either of you from continuing your love affair by writing to each other. Louis made a smooth recovery and was eventually released from his medical discharge, deemed fit enough to rejoin the fight.

It’s at this point in your storytelling that you show your daughter some of the old love letters you and Louis wrote to each other. In those days, you and he just wrote and wrote and wrote until your hands became sore and covered in ink or charcoal. There’s hundreds of them and you’ve kept them all.

19 February 1916

…Do you remember, dearest one, that I once told you of a girl years older than myself who taught dancing, and who I had a calf infatuation over when I was very young? And the father had asked me my intentions!!? Well, she married a year ago a very nice man whose wife had deserted him by going to America at the beginning of the war. The divorce of this man took three and a half years to go through, and had far more uncertainties and difficulties than you could ever have dreamed of, and all the time she and he were longing to marry and wondering if it would ever come true. Well, it did, and they married. He's 45 - she’s 42. They’re terribly happy, and they said that after all they'd suffered, waiting and worrying, nothing could ever again make them unhappy.

He told me all he knew of the divorce laws, and he knows just everything, because I wanted his advice. He said how anxious the whole business was, but they never lost heart. Our wait will only be about a year, but when I saw what they'd endured and survived, I just knew that we too would stand the test, and knew also that, when we finally got there, no power or circumstances on earth could ever again separate us or make us unhappy. Because I know that our love is a really true love of the right kind. So wait for me, my own darling, and when I come back to you, I'll make you the happiest of women that the world has ever known and you mustn't mind if I spoil you all the time. Oh darling, darling one, if I could tell you half of how much I love you, and how completely you are now a part of me. But I think perhaps that your heart does know all this. And now I'm going to stop. All my love, my darling.

Louis xxx

He contacted Lee Gentry, a clever and suave but unscrupulous and dishonest American lawyer who had just come over to Europe with his girlfriend, Katy Costello. He was always saving somebody’s life, so abominably clever at solving other people’s troubles yet so half-witted when it came to his own. Mr. Gentry boasted that he lived by lies, made money by lies, and became famous by lies. His analytical mind was always working on something. A little voice inside that legal brain of his was always whispering to him, walking him through step-by-step of what he should do next.

His life, as he told it to Louis, was also complicated by a love triangle. He began where sensible men left off. Hand-holding and what went with it didn’t seem to be enough. He had to pull them apart and see what made them tick. Overwhelm them with attentions, absorb them. With the result that, when he showed signs of leaving some little thing, she acted like sixty-five wives. Why couldn’t he find some interest other than women? Something normal, like poker or running for Congress. Then he never would’ve been in trouble. Two years ago Mr. Lee Gentry began dating Ms. Carmen Brown. But then he later met and fell in love with Ms. Katy Costello. He was so crazy about her that Carmen became something horrible to him.

Every time he saw her, he had to keep her out of his voice, his eyes, his hands. That hatred, that wanting to turn on her and yell… But it couldn’t be done that way. He didn’t want to leave a woman behind whose grief was going to be a beggar pulling at his and Katy’s elbows. But he couldn’t go on like that for much longer. It wasn’t fair to either woman and it wasn’t fair to him. He called on Ms. Brown with the happy notion in mind of just getting it over and done with by telling her that he didn’t love her anymore. Instead he ended up in such an epidemic of kisses, vows, promises. It was discouraging. Carmen believed they had been in love for two years, that it had all been so sweet and was more than an affair, that he wouldn’t have tried to hurt her in the way he did unless there was some reason because he was too nice for that.

When he came to her room to finally break things off with her once and for all, Carmen was near hysterical, telling him that he couldn’t leave her now. She wanted Lee to tell her about Katy, believing that if he told her about her, she’d have a chance. She wanted so badly for Lee to give her that chance. He insisted there was nobody and begged Carmen to stop. He didn’t want them to go on like that and torture each other. Carmen called Katy a cheap little blonde who was as empty as a paper bag. She accused her of only wanting Lee for what he had, not him. She didn’t believe he could love a woman like that. Not him. Lee still pretended to have no idea what she was talking about. He refused to listen to anymore, but she caught him in his lies. She knew he’d been lunching with Katy at the Royal Hotel. The orchestra leader played there in the afternoons and he saw them together.

Lee finally decided that he had had enough and told her his right name finally. That he loved Katy. He loved her and he was leaving Carmen for her. Carmen was so distraught that she professed that she didn’t want to live. That she wanted to die. That they’d find her dead and fix Lee for it. She fumbled around her desk drawer for the gun she kept there. The gun that he gave her. But it was missing from the drawer. While she was in the other room, Lee was smart enough to take it away, empty the chamber of all the bullets, and stuff them in his pocket. Not trusting her with that plaything, he told her that he was going to keep it. Just like he thought she would, she tried to physically stop him when he made to leave. She wrestled and reached for the gun, but it was unloaded and wouldn’t do her any good even if she had gotten a hold of it. She could do nothing to stop him as he left her apartment.

But then he heard the news that she leapt from the window. He never thought she’d stoop to suicide. He thought her too real, too proud for that. But he was wrong. That tragedy led to a court case where he was considered close to the deceased and a person of interest. During the investigation into her death, he was suspected for a time since he was the last person who saw her alive. That period of being questioned by police and in a court of law was extremely stressful, the most stress he’d ever endured. He was so comfortable with being on the opposite side of the stand, the man who asked the questions. But being called to testify on it and having to give the answers to another man’s questions was nearly petrifying. Ultimately it was ruled there was no foul play and Carmen’s death was indeed a suicide.

No charges were pressed against Lee and he was able to walk away a free man, but he didn’t want a repeat of ever coming that close to the electric chair ever again. It was all much too close for comfort. He moved as far away from that case, from her, as he could go. It was an arduous undertaking that took many years and hard work, but he eventually succeeded in moving his practice area from criminal law to civil law. He was and always had been a genius of the law, but now, instead of calling himself “The Champion Of The Damned,” he was now and forever “The Champion Of The Divorced.”

Their past and present troubles with the women in their lives was something Louis and Lee had in common, but there was an unspoken agreement between them that what Lee told him about his past experience would be kept off the record, a secret between men. There was still the matter at hand.

“Now listen to me. Even after you’ve grown to hate a woman, you can’t pick up your hat and go. You’ve got to do it like a gentleman. I don’t know why. You know, leaving a woman, Mr. Renault, is a long and desperate process. Like wrestling with a piece of fly-paper in a high wind.”

“The trouble is, I’m too nice.”

“Indeed, Mr. Renault. But fortunately for yourself, she’s never been in love with you. So she’s only seen your worst side. In love with another man, you are a monster to her.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that.”

“Believe it or not, it makes no difference to me. Either way, I certainly wouldn’t worry about the what ifs surrounding your soon to be ex-wife. She was no Little Bo Peep from what I gathered.”

“Mr. Gentry.”

“After all, from what you told me and this love letter, this John Stevenson fellow took Madeleine away from you, not dissimilar to how I took Carmen away from Eddie White.” He paused, as if thinking back to how that all turned out, then shrugged. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m sure your wife loves him just as much as she pretended she loved you. Your testimony combined with this love letter from your wife to another man should be substantial proof of your wife’s infidelity. It’ll take time, but it should be enough for the judge to grant you a divorce. The process may go even faster if there was evidence of infidelity on both parties. That’s what you should think about when you’re with other women. There are others, aren’t there?”

No. There weren’t others, as in plural. Yes. There was another woman. Just the one.

“That’s not a bad idea.”

After meeting with Mr. Gentry, Louis met you for lunch.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“My dear, what are friends for if you can't tell them your troubles? And we are friends, you know. We promised each other three months ago. That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you today. To celebrate the three month anniversary of our friendship.”

“Oh, Louis.”

“Do anniversaries make you sad?”

“No, but... I've got something to tell you.”

“I have something to tell you, too.”

“But I've got to say this now while I'm able to.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I'm not going to see you anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, it's not the reason you think. I mean, people talking about us. They are, you know. The other nurses on the ward, all my friends.”

“And I suppose the other nurses on the ward, all your friends, have taken it upon themselves to warn you of the evils of knowing a married man. A married Frenchman, at that.”

“Yes. You should hear them. But that's not the reason I'm not going to see you again. I don't care what people think. I'm only thinking of me.”

“You?”

“Well, you see, whatever people do think and say, all we are is good friends, and I can get along without you now. But things would get terribly complicated if I ever fell in love with you. So, before I do, I'm going to say goodbye.”

“All right. You've talked. Now it's my turn.”

“Louis, there really isn't anything more to say. My mind is made up.”

“Yeah, so is mine. Do you think I don't know that people are talking? I'm not a fool.”

“I told you, I don't care what people say.”

“Well, I do care, and I'm not going to expose you to it. And furthermore, I'm not going to let you go.”

“But, Louis...”

“I saw my lawyer this morning. I asked him to arrange for a divorce.”

“Louis. But your wife, isn't she going to be terribly unhappy?”

“No. Not so long as I leave her the house and everything in it. And even if I never saw you again, I'd still want the divorce. Until a few weeks ago I never really knew what love was supposed to be. If I can't have you, I don't want anyone. I love you, my dear. Will you marry me?”

“Oh, Louis. I-I really don’t know what to say. I’m not saying no. I don’t want to say no, but…might I have some time to think it over? I just can’t think about it all until the war is over. I can’t give your proposal adequate consideration until then. So, will you wait?”

“I’d wait forever.”

“I’m not asking for forever. Just another year or two.”

With Mr. Gentry’s advice in mind, Louis Renault, in keeping with the times, wanted to divorce his adulterous wife without bringing shame and embarrassment on her. Even after all she’d done to hurt and humiliate him, he wanted to spare her from that same hurt and humiliation. Ultimately, he orchestrated his own extramarital affair by going through the charade of checking into a hotel with an actress for the night so he could be blamed for the separation.

2 March 1916

…I just sweated blood thinking how on earth I’d ever find someone who could enact the farce with me. If I picked up a common tart, she'd immediately have been suspected when we arrived at a hotel and, worse still, she'd expect to be slept with. If I failed to oblige, she'd smell a rat. If I found someone I knew, who'd be prepared to stop a night at a hotel just out of a spirit of sportsmanship and friendship, she'd run a risk perhaps of being seen by someone she knew, and her fair name would’ve suffered. And anyhow I knew no one I could possibly have asked to oblige. What I wanted was a body who wouldn't mind being seen, who wouldn't expect me to sleep with her, and it was hard to think of who could do me this good turn, without even knowing me. So there was the problem.

[…] But then I remembered that my sister vaguely knew a girl from Paris who was in with all the stage folk, lived on her own, and had just divorced her husband. So when I saw her in town, I hoped to chat her up, take her out to dinner, and then tell her my problem. I hoped she'd be able to perhaps suggest someone who would do the deed with me. Well, I went round to her flat after ringing her up, and we had a drink or two. She said immediately she'd do it, and there we were. So she and I just spent two nights in a hotel about twenty miles out of the capital city, and just slept peacefully in our separate beds! I never even held her hand!

When I left, I tried to get her to accept a gift, as a token of gratitude, but she wouldn't. I gave her a bottle of French wine and ordered a whopping bunch of flowers to be sent to her, and that was that. I’m deeply grateful to her, and my faith in the essential decency and generosity of ordinary people has gone up by leaps and bounds, by a complete stranger who did it for no reward, but just to help a man who was in difficulties. She just went through the whole nonsense as if it was one huge joke. So that was the whole story of my incursion into the realms of organized legal vice! […] Goodnight my most dearest beloved. I love you very very very much.

Your Louis xxxxxxxxxxxx

And that was the story of how he first developed his reputation as a hedonist, a rake, and a womanizer among other, more scathing remarks and rumors.

16 March 1916

…At times I feel a bit weak-kneed at not getting down to work for this but once proceedings have started it will be so much easier to explain things. I'll just be able to say I'm being divorced and that will be that, and inquisitive people won't have the opportunity to speculate and wonder what's up! But, darling, don't worry - if we do find this is a good spot to work and live as usses, I know you'll love it, although I'm sure England or America sound like foreign lands to you. Any part of either country will be a happy part when it's inhabited by you, my own darling, and by me, who loves you so very, very much. And now I'll say good night so that I can catch the post. All my love, my own darling one. And it's a great big piece of love. It’s all the love I’ve got and it’s all for you.

Your Louis xxx

23 April 1916

I loved another bit of your letter when you said you were building some special undies for when our future comes. I'm sure they are lovely and I swear I'll handle you as gently as if you were a piece of Dresden china when you've got them on. And I promise we won't have a ripping time. Quite apart from looking the sweetest and loveliest girl in all the world, you have the dearest, tenderest and most lovable characteristics, a beautiful voice and a dirty mind. I'm madly in love with you and I haven't seen you for a long, long time, and every day that passes seems an eternity, but soon I'll be meeting you again. One day soon you’ll be made to change your name and, when that happens, there will be one man in this world who will just burst with happiness. He'll be the very proudest and luckiest man alive. […] All my love, my very dearest darling, and look after your very precious self.

Louis xxx

29 April 1916

That you should love me in spite of all the dreary snags I've got, just fills me with wonderment. Oh, darling dearest, I do just adore you. Isn't it amazing that a love like we’ve got can actually make one happy though we're apart? I miss you like hell all the time, but the very knowledge that there really is an usses makes me happy in a wonderful deep sure manner. I'm sure no one else has ever had an usses but with us it's a tangible thing. When I think of you, my darling, I don’t somehow think of you as a separate being. I think of you as a part of my conscious self and you and me and usses and it’s always so vivid. It’s all the things we’ve ever said and done, all the sweet things you said to me, all our funny lownesses and the way we look and the smell of you and the way we dance and all I think of you.

All that and heaps more is only just a fraction of what our usses is to me, my darling one. As you said in your letter, the time it takes us to get finally together is a waste, but it’s no longer frightening. Do you remember how afraid we were once that anything could change? Now I know it won't. I've never been so certain of anything in all my life as I am of my love for you, darling, and you will never escape me now. You just very well try, and see how I react! I will deal with you like the young girl who thought she was shrewder. I was shrewder. She thought it was rude to be viewed in the nude (pardon me). But I viewed her, pursued her, and... You will never guess what I did to her when I caught her. […] Good night my dearest, dearest, dearest darling – all my very best beloved. All my love always and always.

Louis xxx

5 May 1916

Darling, I think so much of the time when you return. As you once said, it won't matter a hoot what we do or where we go or what we go in, just as long as we can meet and be together for a little while. My sister is most terribly keen for you to come here and, at the moment, I can't quite visualize how risky that might be. There are all sorts of things that might occur and make the risk unjustifiable. I just couldn't bear for anything to happen to delay our final usses. If my wife got to hear of it, she might get vindictive but I've heard a lot since I returned and she had had a long affair with a man I once knew but hadn't seen for years. I don't blame her for this but she should perhaps have been more honest and said that her change of heart was due to this. Now I am glad it has happened because I think it was due to this that she was so willing to divorce me. Don't think I'm trying to revile her, my dear, or trying to put the blame for the failure of that on her shoulders. I'm not. I now know that neither of us ever had enough of the right kind of love or affection or respect for one another ever to make the thing a success. It would have ended up this way inevitably. The fact that I was overseas for two years merely delayed the final crash for about three-and-a-half years!

And another thing I thought of, darling. Just suppose people saw you and I together here and knew I was being divorced, they might be led to the conclusion that you were my co-respondent and I never want anything like that to attach to us, sweets. Do you remember how I said I never wanted any of usses to be furtive and surreptitious - well, I still feel the same. But there are dozens of ways we can meet openly, if it is not difficult for you. There’s a lovely spot in Switzerland that I know about. We could meet there. […] And that’s all for now, my darling one. All my love, darling, is yours, and there’s a tremendous amount of it this morning. Oh darling, I do love you so very much.

Louis xxxxxxx

13 May 1916

Darling dearest one, what I'm really trying to say is that from the point of view of my divorce and so on, it wouldn't matter at all how much we met, or how often we were seen together. The only risk would be that she might hear of it and turn vindictive, feeling that I had given her evidence on which she could divorce me because I wanted to marry someone else. As you and I know, that is only a small part of the truth. So don't feel, my dear, that you must stay overseas as long as possible to keep the way ahead clear and safe. Once you were in France, we'd soon think up ways and means of being together often and there would always be a wonderful feeling when we parted that we could meet again soon. And every time we met would be just a little nearer the time when we never have to part again. And if all goes normally from now, it shouldn't be so very long. If the decree nisi comes through in the autumn, the whole business maybe finished next March or April. […] I love you very much, my darling, so come home soon so that I can whisper it into your ear and tell you all the other things about you that I adore so much.

Louis xxxxx

20 May 1916

…Now that proceedings have started, it's wonderful how happy my sister and her husband are that there's you, darling. They were so certain that my life was going to be made so miserable and they are terribly pleased about the divorce, but much more pleased that there is a happy future to look to. All my love darling one, every bit of it.

Louis xxxxxxx

24 May 1916

Oh darling, I get so torn. Sometimes I feel like begging you to try and come home as soon as you can. Then I realize how selfish this perhaps is from your point of view. Because until I'm free, we'd have to be a wee bit careful in our meeting, and I never want any meeting of ours to be furtive and guilty. It was never that way with you and I, and never will be. From the point of view of my people, there is no need for any kind of secrecy because they know about us, and are so happy about it. As I said before, the only risk we'd ever run would be that anyone might see us and tell her, and I'd hate it ever to be thought that you were a co-respondent to me! But when you come home, darling dearest one, I know we'll manage. We were always a pretty resourceful pair, and we'll get around all the snags.

Darling, try and answer this one straight from your heart when the time comes and I'm free and you can tell your people about usses, would it be a frightful shock to them? Will they be so prejudiced about my having been divorced that they'll be afraid I wouldn't make you happy? When I sometimes worry about what a shock it may be to them, I just console myself with the knowledge that once they see us together, they are bound to realize that we were made especially for one another, but I often wonder if this aspect of it worries you, darling one. But all of these things will come right when that wonderful day arrives and we know I'm a free man. The relief felt by a liberated country will be nothing compared with the feeling of relief we'll get. There'll be just no holding us. Darling, I've just been looking again at those last snaps you sent me. I love the one of you sitting, smiling in your blinkers. I'd like to take them off to see les yeux but you look very sweet. Darling, your hands in that snap are lovely. I told you once how much I loved your hands. I love their shape and I love the way you do things with them. […] All my love, my darling.

Your very own Louis xxxxxx

25 May 1916

I've got no great news, but since I can't talk to you, I just can't stop myself writing. Darling, it's so marvelous that there is a you in the world for me to love. Until we met, so much of my future life seemed dreary and empty, and I thought I'd go through it all, and at the end l'd still be feeling that I had missed all the things I hoped would happen to me. Inside myself, I had a very clear picture of how it could feel really to love someone. I made the one big, dreary mistake and realized it so very soon as a mistake but, as long as I was overseas, it didn't seem to matter. I knew a future to be faced and I knew it didn't come up to anywhere near what I felt the future should, but it was all somehow so remote and unreal that I couldn't visualize it, and so I didn't worry about it. Then, after that awful leave, it suddenly became very real and very worrying and something that had to be faced, and it looked so absolutely blank and hopeless that I nearly lost heart, but I realized I could never be ever contented until I was clear of it.

Darling, I just don't know what would have happened if I hadn't met you. I'm sure it was a kindly fate that brought us together. The divorce would have occurred anyhow - but, darling, it would have been so infinitely more bleak if we hadn't found our usses in all my worst moments. Since coming home, I felt you all around me, comforting me with your wonderful, wonderful faith and, above all, loving you has made me realize how very much worth living this life is, and how everything - work and career and enjoyment of friends - depends on feeling happy. Darling, before I loved you, I never believed that continuous happiness was a real possibility. I've often been happy before, and most of the time contented, but all our time together and our time apart, I feel a positive glow of happiness. You are a wonderful person, my darling, that you can do this to a very ordinary but very loving old Louis. […] Good night my own darling. I love you very, very much.

Louis xxxxxxxx

30 May 1916

…I want to see you so much that some days I am so miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. But sweet one, I have promised myself that I will try and stick it out until September, by which time everything should be well on the way and everything so much safer. It's only another three months. Oh, but darling, I do so want to see you. I long to drop everything and just run straight home to you but I know for both our sakes and our future usses this is the unpleasant part that I must play and I must try and do it as well as you have done all yours.

Sweet one, you asked me to tell you honestly if it would be a shock to my people when they heard that I was going to marry someone who had been divorced. Well, I don't really know how they will take it. I think they will be all right once they realize that my mind is so completely made up and nothing they could possibly say or do will change it. I am pretty sure my sisters on the ward will be with us and I know that once they have seen us together and meet you outside of being a former patient, that they will be all for it. Actually, this never worries me at all because the one thing above all the matron admires is someone who can make up their own mind and stand on their own feet and I am sure once she sees how determined I am, she will agree and I am quite confident that once they have met you, all will be well. […] All my love my dearest darling for always and always.

Your sweetheart xx

18 June 1916

…Darling, do you remember, the evening before I left, when I just said goodbye to you by the door and we were walking down the stairs, you suddenly looked back up at me and said, "Darling, I do love you,"? I think it was then that I realized suddenly how big and great our love for one another was, and I don't think after that moment that I ever feared you would cease to care for me. And now that things have gone so well, my beloved, I will just never give you the chance of caring any less, because I mean to live with you beside me for ever more and if you try to resist, you won't stand a chance. And do you know what I'd do, my angel one, if you tried to get away? l'd just seduce you, firmly and deliberately, but very tenderly and lovingly, and l'd give you a baby and you'd have to marry me then, d'you see? Gosh I'm a dirty old devil, aren't I? Darling, I love it the way we can always be so low with each other, but we never seem to be smutty or dirty, like so many other people. I think it's because in spite of our lowness, we are rather a nice couple.

Darling, perhaps when the time comes that you can tell your people about us, it won't be such a terrible shock to them after all. It occurred to me that after a dear friend of mine had his divorce and everything, perhaps they won't think too badly of someone else who has been through it. Anyhow, it may help to soften the blow a bit and they may not feel I'm such a terrible fellow after all. My own darling, this 'ere brooch is the one I got in Bern. It isn't terribly nice and I wanted to try and find one with a much smaller badge on it, but they didn't seem to make them. But I never got you a present from a jewellers before and I felt I wanted to, just as a prelude to that wonderful day that will soon come when we can go together and find a ring to slip on that third finger of yours. Darling, I will just be incoherent with happiness when I'm doing that. […] Good night my very own very lovely darling and promise me you will never forget how much I love you.

Louis xxxxx

25 June 1916

…Oh my own lovely one, it's going to be such fun, doing everything with you and having you to talk to about everything and to help me to decide things. When we've got some money, darling, it will be such fun going perhaps to the Motor Show and deciding on what car we want. But the most fun of all will be our house. This part of the world has heaps of old antique shops among the small villages round about. When we are here to stay with my sister, we'll have great fun stooging off on our own in the car and snooping around them all, and we'll pick up bits and pieces and they'll gradually accumulate.

Darling, when my final decree comes through, how soon shall we get married? I'd like to marry you the day it all comes through, but then when I think of this, I think perhaps people would, or might, imagine you were my co-respondent! And I don't want anyone ever to think that. I don't mind any number of gossipy tongues wagging about me and my divorce - actually very, very few people know of it, but I don't want anyone to associate you, my darling, with anything that is sordid. Probably the best way will be for us to announce our engagement in the ordinary way in The Times and it will be so easy to say we'd met vaguely overseas, and that after I was free, we just happened to meet again in France and fell in love, and there we are.

Darling, won't it be wonderful when we actually see it in print, that you are engaged to be married to me? Darling, we're going to have a wonderful life together. When I'm with you, everything seems so clear and easy. My work seems to go smoothly and I enjoy it, and people I work with seem to be nicer and more interesting, and I don't get the urge to be curt and irritable with indifferent theatre sisters! At least, not as much. Do you remember that poor old girl I used to be so unkind to? But she really was the pits. […] Goodnight, my very own dearest lovely darling. Never stop loving me, because I love you with all my heart. In fact, I love you very much indeed.

Your very own Louis xxxxx

27 June 1916

…And all the legal paper work for this divorce business is now absolutely complete. Yesterday I received an enormous affidavit concerning my means, which I had to take into a solicitor's and have it sworn on oath. They do word these things in an archaic manner - it was full of, "I verily believe that etc., etc.," and I was supposed to be saying it! […] Good night my own most dearest adorable beloved darling.

Louis xxxxxxxxxx

7 July 1916

…Darling, did you think I looked too fat in the last snap?! I didn't send you all those snaps because I fancy myself as a pin-up boy but I want to keep you posted on my changes of contour that occur so that you won't think I've been blown up with a bicycle pump when we meet. But I won't get any fatter, my lovely one; that will be your job when we decide we want some little usses, all exactly like you. You'll be so sweet and tubby and I'll adore you and tease the life out of you and look after you so very carefully. […] Goodnight, my dearest dearest darling. And don’t ever forget how very much I love you, you adorable, lovely darling one.

Your Louis xxxxxxx

11 July 1916

…Lee Gentry was there and I got him away for a while from the crowd - ostensibly to show him something, but I wanted a bit more briefing on my problem and he really seemed to think it's quite likely that the hearing will be expedited. Of course, he had his lucky piece, an old Mexican peso. While he’s not one for superstition, others might say he would’ve lost the whole case without it. So I'm keeping my fingers crossed for us. I also asked him what it’s best to tell people and he said definitely to stall people off until it’s all over and then just tell them that I've had a divorce. If they get inquisitive and ask who did what and to whom and with what, the answer is for them to mind their own hemorrhagic business. He also said it's most unlikely that it'll feature in the headlines. The undefended suits go through at the rate of about a hundred a day and they don't make news. […] Darling, I’m so very, very proud that you should care for me and I love you so very much. All my love, my beloved sweet darling, for always and always.

Louis xxxxx

31 July 1916

This morning your sweet letter arrived with those marvelous snaps of you. Even if you haven't got a colossal opinion of yourself as a pin-up girl, I've got the most enormous one and no pin-up girl in all the world to me could be lovelier than you, my dearest. Darling, they are so good and I love them so much. Darling, you are so very pretty and you've got the dearest, sweetest, loveliest face that I have ever looked on. Did I ever remember to tell you what a lovely shape you are? Darling, I think that’s the sweetest picture of all of you and it's so like you that it's almost alive. Thank you, my darling dearest one, for sending them - they have made my morale soar to unprecedented heights. When I think that a person as wonderful as you, and who looks as wonderful as you do, can even care for me a tiny bit, I know I'm the luckiest man in all the world. As I'm writing this, I've got the snaps spread out all around me on the table and I feel you are very close to me. Darling, I do love you so much, so never stop liking me, will you? Darling, you've got such a sweet face - I could just eat these snaps. You look so fresh and young and lovely and I just can't believe that one day soon we'll both belong to each other for evermore. […] I love you darling with all my heart.

Your very own Louis xxxxxxxx

3 August 1916

…I’ve got all my favorite snaps of you inside my wallet and each day I can put a different one on the top and I can look at it through the transparent celluloid. It keeps you from getting scratched and dirty. It’s a tremendous luxury to have you so easily available all day. Whenever I feel I need you, darling one, I just pull you out of my pocket and I can look at you long and lovingly. Darling, I’m most terribly in love with you and you are so very easy to look at. […] Goodnight my very own darling. I love you very much.

Your Louis xxxxxxx

5 August 1916

…I'm so glad you like the snaps, darling, just as well you like me, my dearest one, because you are going to have to be with me and wake up every morning and see me for the rest of your life whether you like it or not. […] Darling, I seem to be rambling on so much tonight but I did so want to chitter to my love. But I must have a look at my patients, poor devils. I’ll write again tomorrow. All my love, my very dearest, dearest darling.

Your sweetheart xxxx

5 September 1916

…Darling one, I'm never going to let myself get so busy that it prevents us living the kind of life together that we want to and if you do try to keep me in our bed in the mornings, I'll just never be able to get up and won't I love it? Darling one, we always felt so very cuddleworthy early in the morning, so heaven help us when we find ourselves tucked up together in our warm bed. Darling, however small our house may be, we must have a ginormous bath with oodles of hot water and if you are feeling terribly lazy, I'm going to bathe you whether you like it or not. Darling, I ought to be horse-whipped for making such improper suggestions in a letter to the girl I love but, darling, you always gave me an urge to be terribly improper so you've only got yourself to blame for being so lovely and so very cuddleworthy. […] Good night, my darling dearest best beloved and very adorable one.

Your very own Louis xxxx

10 September 1916

…Darling, when we are married to one another you'll never have to sit in bed with a scarf around your shoulders to keep you warm because:

A. When we're usses there'll be very little time or necessity to sit up in bed and to write letters and

B. I'll take the place of your scarf and wrap myself so snuggly round you that your shoulders will be warm anyway and

C. You won't have to write me letters any more because we'll just lie close together in our warm usses bed with a soft pink cloud for a mattress and we'll love chitter to our hearts' content.

And now, my little honey lamb, back to our plans. Even if you feel like strangling me, darling one, for going over it again, here we go just the same, and I'd love you to try to strangle me because both your hands would be engaged in trying to throttle me which would leave me with both my hands free to get up to the most terrible mischief. […] I must go now, my very dearest darling one. Never forget how very much I love you.

Your own Louis xxxxxxxxxx

16 September 1916

…Perhaps I got it when I laid a gentle kiss on your last letter, my love! But I much prefer to take your colds off you by kissing you on your own darling soft lips and that is the technique I'll employ in the future - in the very, very near future. Whenever we caught a cold from one another it was such enormous fun, my darling. When we're usses together again, you'll find me an awful nuisance. I'll put you in a hot bath and then I'll put you to bed and make you inhale and drink hot whisky and aspirins and then, in case you feel cold and shivery, I'll hop into bed beside you, my darling. I'll curl myself tight round you and you'll just have to forget all about your cold. Darling one, I hope it's all settled by the time this reaches you.

D'you remember, my darling, when you had a temperature with a cold? And I made you stay in bed and you were so angry and I came to talk to you in your room - the room next to your real room - and darling one, you looked so sweet all tucked up in bed and I loved you very much. […] Look after yourself, my darling, and never forget how very much I love you, because I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Your own Louis xxxxx

Louis was elevated to the rank of Captain in 1917. He knew how worried you were for him while he was in the trenches or out on patrols for the Western Front, so he kept you up to date with everything that was happening, how he and the men in his regiment were faring, etc., while filling his letters with declarations of his love for you and the occasional racy passage. On 14 January 1918, he gained command from the General and received instructions for a reconnaissance mission into enemy territory. It was very clear that this particular assignment was an extremely dangerous, bordering on suicidal operation. He knew it was doomed to fail from the very beginning, a particular detail he hid from his subordinates. Captain Renault’s fellow officers noticed a change in his demeanor. They put aside their concerns, however, since such behavioral changes weren’t unheard of, given the stressful nature of their situation.

The relationship between French and British soldiers during World War I was complex and evolved over time. At the beginning of the war, there was a sense of camaraderie and solidarity between the two armies, as they were united in their fight against the common enemy. However, as the war dragged on and the death toll mounted, tensions between the two armies began to surface. One source of tension was the language barrier between French and British soldiers. Many British soldiers didn’t speak French, which made communication with their French allies difficult. In addition, the two armies had different tactics and strategies, which sometimes led to misunderstandings and disagreements.

Another source of tension was the perception that the British were not doing enough to support the French war effort. French soldiers still resented the fact that the British hadn’t fully committed their army to the Western Front until 1916, and they believed that the British were more interested in fighting in other theaters of war, such as the Middle East. Despite these tensions, the French and British soldiers did work together closely during the war, especially in major battles such as the Battle of the Somme and the Battle of Passchendaele.

Many soldiers on both sides formed close bonds with each other and exchanged gifts and souvenirs. Overall, while there were certainly challenges, the relationship between French and British soldiers during World War I was one of mutual respect and cooperation. Stevenson and Renault were coincidentally members of the same regiment and decided to play a friendly game against each other. Whatever game they played didn’t matter. All Renault remembered was that they gambled to determine which of them would go out on patrol that evening. Whether he cheated or not was up for debate but, either way, his opponent lost.

Not only was Stevenson of lower rank and serving under Renault’s direct command, he had known him for so many years that he considered him to be his best friend, their bond like that of brothers. Renault insisted that he needed a man that he could trust to carry out the task, so it didn’t take much convincing, regardless of whether Stevenson went willingly or if Renault persuaded him to go. Whatever the case, he eventually left the trenches on Captain Renault’s instructions. His assumptions about the mission were proven correct, and Stevenson failed to return from his patrol.

Renault didn’t know the time but dusk had fallen and still, of course, no word. When he asked any of his men, they shrugged, as if he was asking about when it might next rain. Those fools around him, laughing, drinking, arguing... Did they know what he’d done? Did they suspect it? Renault felt they must’ve all been guilty of something. And yet...they laughed, drank, argued... God knew what he’d done. He wondered if His judgment could be worse than his own.

Renault later found unsent letters in Stevenson’s tent, tucked between the pages of his journal. One was already in a sealed envelope, addressed to his unborn child with instructions printed in big, bold letters that it wasn’t to be opened until his son or daughter turned eighteen. Oh, God. Madeleine… Was she…? Louis didn’t want to disrespect John’s wishes, so he didn’t open the envelope. He put it in his breast pocket for safekeeping. The other letter was addressed to Madeleine, but was unfinished, only taking up half a page and abruptly cut off midway through a sentence near the end. John had to leave it incomplete. As his eyes darted across the words of the half-written letter, a terrible, black pit formed in Louis’ stomach and nearly made him sick. That terrible, black pit only grew bigger and bigger the further down he read. Madeleine. She was. She was! His throat became dry and tickled. He felt bile stirring up, threatening to expel itself from his body. He stopped himself just in time and held it in until his stomach settled. He didn’t feel any better.

Stevenson was writing to her. He was clearly pressed for time based on how uncharacteristically messy some of the letters looked, either smudged or too close together, but it was still legible. In just a few words John expressed that he wasn’t proud of their affair. His feelings for her were genuine, there was no mistaking that. Every word he wrote in his letters, every word he whispered in her ear while they shared a bed were of the utmost sincerity. But he didn’t like deceit and Louis didn’t deserve it. While he knew she and Louis had just recently divorced, he wanted to come clean sooner rather than later. He hoped Louis could forgive them and be happy for them eventually. He hoped they could part as friends or, at the very least, amicably. Regardless, he was excited for their upcoming baby.

14 January 1918

…My darling Madeleine, I have suddenly realized that I’ve never made a will or anything like one, which seems pretty feeble for a soldier who could die at any minute of any day, and you being pregnant makes it even more irresponsible. I’ll do it properly when I get back and tear this up before you ever see it but I’ll feel easier that I’ve recorded on paper everything that I wish to leave to you in the event of my death. I cannot know if our baby is a boy or a girl but I do know it will be a baby. I understand my family cannot know of our baby until we are safely married. But should anything happen to me, you must take charge. You must think of the child, protect them from the scrutiny of society. I don’t want my son or daughter to grow up a bastard, subjected to public shame and ridicule that—

John’s mention of a child being conceived from the affair made Louis feel even worse. He made love to his wife more times than he could count and, while he paid special attention to her reactions and made sure she was more than satisfied, she never became pregnant from any of their unions. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she had been secretly taking something or doing something to ensure she wouldn’t get pregnant from him, but he’d never voice these thoughts and accuse her of such an act.

Next to the journal and unfinished letter was a will, listing everything that John wanted to leave to his immediate family and everything he wanted to leave to Louis and his wife. He worried that if he left anything just to Madeleine, then his family would become suspicious and make inferences about the affair. By including Louis in his will, he deliberately made it appear as if he was being a very good friend who thought of the couple as an extension of his family. He thought ahead and put a safeguard in place in an effort to spare himself, his family, his lover, and her husband from becoming local pariahs. Both letters were written with the intention of being sent only in the event of his death. John hoped they’d never have to be sent, but he had no way of knowing what the future would hold for him. Louis couldn’t let anybody see the unfinished letter. He thought about burning it to ensure nobody would ever read it. But just as he was about to flick open his lighter, he thought of Madeleine and what she would want. If John was truly dead, she’d want to hold onto any surviving piece of him that she could. She’d want to read what could have potentially been his last words to her. So he folded it up and hid it in his breast pocket with the envelope. He left both the journal and will on the desk so that they could be found and sent to John’s family in case worse came to worst.

Whether or not he intentionally sent Stevenson out on patrol to his death, whether or not he was actually at fault, Renault became guilt-stricken and headed out into the battlefield to search for his friend himself, hoping against hope that he was alive somewhere. Following a brief shootout in which Renault stealthily killed three German riflemen with his revolver, he found Stevenson trapped, pinned down in a trench or crater of some sort. He made him drink some of the remaining water in his canteen to revive him. Whatever was pinning the wounded Stevenson down, adrenaline gave Renault the strength to push or pull it off of him and haul him over his back like a sack of potatoes. And then he was running, or at least trying to run, through the battlefield, attempting to get himself and Stevenson back to the barracks, back to safety. Despite trying to hide and duck under cover, both men were spotted by the Germans. An artillery shell landed outside a parapet and blew Renault against the wall, rendering him unconscious.

Captain L. Renault admitted to medical treatment following events of 14 January. Personal effects held in storage locker. Patient remains in weak vegetative state. Will respond to stimuli, but only for brief periods of time. When last roused, he reported no memory of recent events, had trouble recalling even his own name. Most likely due to severity of initial head trauma. Potential cause for concern is patient’s risk of slipping into a coma. Will continue to monitor. If status does not improve in a week's time, recommend transfer to St. Etienne for neurological tests.

Signed - Dr. Florbelle

Renault spent several days comatose in the recovery ward inside a hospital. When he woke up, his memory from the last few days was hazy due to the resulting head trauma, and he had no memory of his wife’s affair, his divorce, or how he even got to the hospital. He didn’t even know its name nor what country he was in. Was he back home in France? Did he get lost and accidentally cross the border? He was so out of it and all war hospitals looked the same to him, so he couldn’t be certain. For all he knew, he could’ve been anywhere in Europe. He’d been heavily sedated, or so it seemed. His mind and body felt heavy and lethargic.

Renault suffered a non-fatal head injury, which was officially diagnosed as a concussion of the brain. This resulted in retrograde amnesia and, while the hospital staff hoped it was only temporary, there was no way of really knowing. But Stevenson was fatally injured due to the damage to his lungs caused by the blast. The doctors determined that he didn’t have long to live. They thought it best that they didn’t tell Renault the truth about Stevenson right away, fearful that doing so would exacerbate his already volatile condition and send him into shock. Instead they told Renault that he ended up in hospital because Stevenson threw himself in front of him in order to save him from the enemy shell and couldn’t take any visitors because he was still recovering from emergency surgery.

A mortally wounded soldier was lying in a cot next to him. The dying man knew his fate was inevitable. There was nothing more to be done. All they could do for him now was numb his pain to the best of their ability with drugs and keep him in a state of sedated relaxation, ensuring he was comfortable as he died. His lungs were failing and beyond help, so he pulled out a fresh cigarette and lighter. He wanted to enjoy one last smoke before he succumbed, but he couldn’t light the damn thing himself due to the extent of his injuries. Renault, not recognizing the man, lit it for him. Once he finished his cigarette, he thanked Renault and asked him to deliver a mercy kill, wanting to be put out of his misery. He’d prefer to die a quick, clean death at the hands of a friend, rather than suffer the pain of a lingering death from an enemy’s shell blast.

Not wanting to be charged with murder, he obliged by smothering the man with a pillow. The man didn’t struggle and, within five minutes, he was dead. He looked peaceful, as if he died in his sleep. Just then, Nurse Haydon, Renault’s assigned nurse, entered the room. She announced the soldier’s time of death and had her fellow doctors and nurses on the ward take his body away. They immediately got started on making preparations to transport his body for his funeral and burial, and had a message sent to the War Department to inform his family.

He wasn’t sure why, but Nurse Haydon reminded him of someone else he met. As Haydon conducted the eye exam, he stared at her. There were so many things about her that felt familiar to him, as if he’d seen the same features or mannerisms on someone else. But when he thought hard about it, he knew it wasn’t his wife he was thinking about. But if it wasn’t her, then who was it? Though he couldn’t remember your name, he remembered your face. He told Haydon that he found it hard to read, so she asked him to just look straight at her as she examined his eyes. She grabbed a light and shined it in his eyes, telling him to let her know if it hurt at all. She asked him to look up for her, then look down and from side to side. She asked him questions along the way, some of which he didn’t know how to answer.

Did he have any pain in his eyes at all or any discomfort when he moved his eyes or if he read? When he said that he was having trouble reading, did he mean that it was uncomfortable to read? Did it cause him strain on his eyes and make his head pain appear worse? Did shining the candlelight cause him any pain? Or did the pain radiate into his head? He didn’t know. It was hard to tell because of his head wound from the shell blast. Did he wear glasses? No, he didn’t, but Nurse Haydon believed that if he was having some trouble reading, he might’ve needed glasses. But there was no way they could provide him with such things there. They just didn’t have the resources. But she told Renault that, once he got home after he was nice and recovered, she knew a good doctor who would be able to prescribe him with some. According to her, his eyes seemed to be working well and appeared to be in good healthy order, apart from his sight problems.

Although, who was the nurse responsible for putting this bandage on? It wasn’t up to standards whatsoever. She asked Renault if he remembered her name or maybe if he could describe her. When he hesitated, Nurse Haydon assured him that the other nurse wouldn’t get in any trouble, but she’d have to be reprimanded. Though the nurse’s name escaped him, he was able to give Nurse Haydon a detailed enough description of her that she knew exactly which nurse he was talking about. She explained to him that the reason she was so upset with the other nurse’s shoddy work is that the hospital had a very strict code of cleanliness on the ward. It was very important to make sure that all bandages and instruments were of the utmost cleanliness and that they were fit to use on the patients. He felt as if he’d had this kind of conversation before, but when? With whom?

Looking at it, she noticed that Renault’s blood was seeping through the bandage. She decided the best thing that she could do was to take it off completely, clean the wound thoroughly and then reapply a nice fresh clean bandage. But first, before she did any of those things, she took great care to wash her hands. She didn’t want to get any dirt or debris into the wound because that would cause further infection. She was gone again for just a few moments before she came back with some fresh bandages and some ointment. She tried to be as gentle as she could be while unwrapping the wound, but it seemed to be quite wrapped up and it was tricky to find where the bandage started and where it ended. Once she got it, she told Renault to tell her if he needed her to stop at any point and if he had any pain or discomfort in any way.

Whenever he hissed or seethed through his teeth, she apologized and stopped, patiently waiting for him to tell her when she could keep going. He was doing very well and was very brave while she disposed of his old, bloody bandages and took a look at his wound unobscured. It seemed to be very sore and very red, so she just allowed the air to get to the wound so it could breathe for just a few moments to help it to dry out a little bit. Just to make it a little bit more comfortable before she put the new fresh, clean bandage on. It was quite the nasty head wound that he had. Even in the twilight the gushing blood glinted red under the lamps of the hospital.

She prepared the ointment and explained to Renault that the bottle she held in her hand was an astringent which was going to help clean the wound and also to help prevent any infection. She poured some onto a clean cloth and, luckily, didn’t need an awful lot. But she warned him that it was going to sting and recommended that maybe he should close his eyes and count to three. No matter how high Captain Renault’s pain tolerance was, he still winced as she counted to three and applied the astringent to his wound. She didn’t want to put too much wrapping on his wound. She still wanted the air to get to it and to allow the wound to breathe. Once she finished rewrapping his head with a clean bandage, she asked him how it felt. Did it feel too tight or loose in any way? Did it feel comfortable? Good. Just before she came in, Nurse Haydon overheard someone talk about Renault’s hearing, so he told her that he was finding it difficult to hear in one ear because of the blast and he was afraid that he was losing his hearing permanently. She was able to assuage his fears, however.

“Don’t fear. I have known many soldiers to regain their sense of hearing once they were back at home. Yes, sometimes the damage can be permanent. But, other times, it’s not so permanent. So I’m going to test your hearing just very, very briefly to see to what extent you can hear. Can you obviously hear my voice now? You can? Every word of it? Most of it. All right. So I’m going to whisper a word in your ears and I want you to repeat that back to me.”

He struggled a little bit in one ear. He could hear her voice but not what she was saying. To him, It was all very muffled like he was underwater. In that case, Nurse Haydon believed his hearing loss could be temporary. She told him that once he went home, had some nice rest, and spent some time with his family, his hearing should return to normal. The last thing she needed to check was his heart and lungs. The hospital had some very complicated equipment, state of the art and only the best for the French and British armies. She explained to him everything she was doing so that he wouldn’t be alarmed. The instrument she used allowed her to hear inside his body and she could determine whether or not his body was working correctly and in the most functional way. He didn’t need to do anything. All he had to do was just sit there peacefully and calmly.

“You have a very strong heartbeat. Very strong. That’s good, yes. Now can you take some nice deep breaths in and out for me? Deep breath in and out, deep breath in and out, deep breath in and out. One more time. Have you been coughing in the night and have you been bringing up any mucus or fluid? Well, it sounds like there’s a little bit of congestion on the chest which isn’t a bad thing. It’s awfully chilly in here and, with your head wound, there may be a little bit of infection in your lungs there, which is nothing to worry about. We’ll just keep an eye on it.”

He asked her to read to him until he fell asleep, even if he didn’t use any words and only communicated by his eyes flickering over to a bookshelf. He had a stack of books next to his cot and not the strength to read one for more than a minute at a time. With the pain it was hard to focus and follow the plot, anyway. He remembered being in hospital once before. A woman would sometimes visit him in the evening and pick up his favorite novel to read to him until he fell asleep. Were you another nurse he knew? When he awoke you always left a note to say when you’d return, signed with love followed by your name. Your name. What was it?

“I suppose I have a little bit of time to do that. Seeing as you find it difficult to read at the moment, then I’ll be more than happy to read you a few pages from one of your books. Any book in particular?”

Louis later found a sealed envelope in his breast pocket of his uniform jacket, which had been kept in a storage locker. The envelope was blank except for the bold, black words that read, “To my child” and “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 18TH BIRTHDAY.” He stared at the words and fiddled with the envelope between his fingers. Why did he have this? It wasn’t in his handwriting and he didn’t have any children. Who did this belong to? Why was he holding onto it? When he dug further into the pocket, he found a half-written letter. It was crumpled up a bit and the ink was smudged, but still legible. Unlike the other one, this letter didn’t have an envelope to protect it. As he read it, he began to remember. His memory was fragmented and came back to him in bits and pieces over time. It was difficult to make sense of the images that were flashing through his mind at first and he often suffered from severe headaches and migraines. Notes. You left him notes. Notes. Letters made brief. Letters. He wrote letters. To his wife? Yes. And to you, also. Where were they? He had every one that you wrote him kept in a drawer somewhere. At the barracks? In a locker? In a tent? Where were the ones he wrote you? Stuffed in your dresser drawer at home? In a make-up bag in a storage locker to make sure the cleaners didn't throw them out while you were doing your rounds in the hospital? The letters he held in his hands were from John. John who was dead. In one of his hands, Louis held an unfinished letter from a ghost to his lost love. In the other, Louis held a finished letter from a ghost to his unborn child. Louis’ ex-wife, Madeleine, was John’s lost love. And she was carrying his unborn child.

Upon being medically cleared and completing his service, Louis was given an honorable discharge and was awarded with the Legion of Honor, the highest French order of merit for military and civil merits, the 1914-1918 Inter-Allied Victory medal, for serving at least three months in the war zone, and the 1914-1918 Commemorative war medal, for his service in World War I. While you and Louis knew that nothing that happened between you was meaningless, after John’s untimely death, you both made the difficult decision to go your separate ways. Life was pulling you in two very different directions, but you promised that you’d find your way back to each other someday. Due to the circumstances that were beyond your control, goodbye was where your relationship had to remain, at least for the time being. It wasn’t farewell, it was only goodbye. Louis assured you that no matter what happened in your time apart, nothing could stop him from loving you. Until you could be together again, you’d still write to each other whenever you could. When Louis was demobbed and returned to France eight months before the war ended, you stayed on.

You sent Louis some pre-written letters so that he’d still have something from you to read while he was on the train and back home in France, until he could spare the time to sit down and write you again. During the war, you wrote to each other almost every day while you were apart, your missives often decorated with hand-drawn love hearts and always sealed with kisses. With the war nearing its end, it’d be an adjustment for the both of you to not correspond as often. Your constant endearments and promises of love were sprinkled with other, more risque declarations in your letters. Most of your letters revealed a young woman who was faithful to the man of her dreams, despite the attention of other servicemen posted far from home. You eagerly awaited Louis, counting down the days to when you could be together at long last. At one point you wrote that you were so glum and ill-tempered living without your love, adding mischievously,

“Darling one, it's just as well you aren't here as you would probably have to spank me hard - but what a heavenly spanking!”

However, you only show your daughter letters that are “clean” and don’t have such risqué remarks. She’s an adult, yes, but she doesn’t need to know everything her parents got up to when they were young. The very thought of your child reading about your and your husband’s sex life, no matter how “mild” it’s considered through a modern lens, while you and he are still alive, is so embarrassing. You’d rather not be around when she reads those letters. So the more “intimate” ones you’ll keep private for now, between just you and your husband until you both are gone. Nevertheless, the letters you do allow her to read offer an extraordinary window into life during the World Wars. After the end of World War I, men and women put their lives back together and strove to fulfill the dreams they had of a happy future. They did the same at the end of World War II.

[free-for-all-fics]

Here’s my first Oldies but Goodies Crossover Prompt! Main pairing is Captain Louis Renault x Reader, but there are some other Claude Rains characters that appear. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of this and I’d love to read it! 🥘💚🍲

Rick Blaine is the owner of Rick’s Café Américain, an expensive and chic nightclub which possesses an air of intrigue. It’s the most popular joint in Casablanca, even more popular than The Blue Parrot, one of its competitors. Everybody comes to Rick’s. As such, Rick Blaine is a very busy man. Both his days and his nights are sacrosanct. Time is money, and his time is of the utmost value. He’s not an easy man to impress and is very peculiar about who he hires. Everyone under his employ must know how to multitask, think on their feet, and work under stress. They must come into work without the assumption that it’ll slow down or die off eventually. No matter how busy a workday gets, it can always get busier, even as it gets very late into the night and turns into the early hours of the morning. Employees must be able to single-handedly manage all the needs and demands of their jobs, including the wide variety of customers, all of whom are unique characters with their own specialized set of needs, wants, and demands. They must do all of this without the expectation of being able to rely on others to help or pick up the slack. That’s a luxury, not a right. He must be able to run a tight ship to keep his establishment afloat, or else he’d sink from bankruptcy. If his employees take care of him, Rick will take care of them in return.

Which is why he almost lost it when his newest cook that he just spent two weeks training quit without warning or notice. Apparently she got lucky and bought an exit visa from Signor Ferrari. She was leaving on the next plane to Lisbon to pursue her career as an aspiring playwright or actress or whatever nonsense opportunity there supposedly was in America. Rick didn’t listen or care to know. He needed to find someone to replace her and quickly. Except Rick couldn’t seem to find a single woman in town that was willing to leave the house or work long hours pouring over a hot stove. Most of them were married, with husbands that wouldn’t allow it. As he crossed off names and the list of applicants dwindled down, he began to get nervous that he’d never find anyone suitable for the job…

…until you walk through his door. You’ve been living frugally for many months but, even though you’ve been saving and spending your money wisely, pretty soon you’re running extremely low. To keep a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food in your stomach, you go to Rick’s Café Américain to apply for a job. Upon entering, your senses are assaulted and almost overwhelmed. The lights are bright and there’s a heavy scent of smoke wafting through the air that nearly makes you cough. A middle-aged black man sits on a stool before a small salmon-colored piano on wheels, playing and singing while accompanied by a small orchestra. They’re going through warmups before opening to the public. You’re greeted by a fat, jovial German man with spectacles. He appears to be getting trays and glasses ready.

"Good morning."

"Morning, miss. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here about the cook position that’s open in the kitchen. I’m supposed to meet with Rick Blaine at 7:00."

The man pulls out his pocket watch to look down at the time and back up at you. "You're early. We’re not quite ready to open.”

"My father used to say that if you're right on time, then you're late."

“Respectful and self-conscious of others’ time. Rick will like that. Come with me.” He introduces himself to you as Carl, the waiter. He shows you to an empty table and has you sit down. "Have a seat, I'll let him know you're here and he’ll be with you shortly.”

"Thank you." You smile at him and sit where he tells you to and wait. You watch as Carl, dinner tray in hand, goes up the stairs and knocks on a private door. It opens and he speaks to someone on the other side who you cannot see. He comes back down a few minutes later, followed by a man in a fine suit. He sits down across from you and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it. Carl leaves the two of you alone.

“Here to be the new cook?” Rick asks as he looks at you, blowing out a puff of smoke as he leans back in his chair to get a good look at you.

"Yes, sir."

Rick clears his throat and sits straighter in his chair. "I was told that you had culinary experience?"

You nod. "That's right."

"Can you manage multiple incoming orders at the same time? Can you manage a kitchen full of people?”

"Yes."

"How do you feel about long hours?" He crosses his arms over his chest.

"I don't mind."

You smile again and Rick almost has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too. You seem like a promising applicant. During the rest of the interview, you’re able to maintain eye contact and answer all of his questions, no matter how difficult. You carry yourself in such a way that demonstrates you’re prepared and respect his time. You have all the skills he’s looking for in an employee. But now comes the question that will determine whether he’ll hire you or not.

"Your boyfriend is okay with you working?" He furrows his brows. "Last thing I need is a man walking in here and causing disturbances in my place, all because he believes his woman has neglected or jilted him.”

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"Husband then."

"Don't have one of those either."

"Well, you're not missing out on anything. I promise you. Can you start today? Right now?"

"I'd love to."

"Great. You're hired.”

You examine the incoming ingredients. Damn suppliers, always trying to get one over on Rick. You turn the aubergines in your hands to look for the sallow brown spots, tossing your rejects into a separate bin with a grunt. Then you pick up the basil and look at each leaf like an art appraiser, taking in the minutia of the details, sniffing a ripped leaf before chewing it. The truck driver scratches at his stubbled jowls and checks his wristwatch for the fifth time in two minutes. You continue, no faster, no slower. As far as you’re concerned, he can check the time a hundred times in his indiscreet way, huffing and puffing like the nuisance he is. Timetables are inconsequential to Rick unless it affects his opening and closing times or wastes the time of his staff when they’re on the clock. Your boss will only accept ingredients that are of the utmost quality.

And what this man has brought you looks like picked over scraps more suitable to feed to the stray dogs you’ve seen wandering around than for human consumption in a fine establishment. After you’re done taking what’s usable, you warn the truck driver in no uncertain terms that the next time he comes to make a drop off, he better bring you what you ask for and not attempt to cut corners like this again. If all he has is food he wouldn’t dare feed his own wife and children, then he shouldn’t show up at all. You won’t tolerate him wasting your time. If he dares to insult you in such a manner again, he and his bosses will have to deal with Rick directly. You tell him to trust you when you say that he doesn’t want that to happen. An insult to any employee of Rick’s is an insult to the man himself.

You pick up the chopping knife and cut the vegetables into perfect matchsticks in the time it takes most people just to peel the carrots. Every motion is precise from intense repetition and you pride yourself on the machine-like perfection of your shapes. Everything is even, uniform, perfect. You look over at the sous chef and scowl. So slow! So inept! You’d been born faster than that! Your eyes narrow as she applies the seasoning and your mouth tightens to a thin straight line. “Too much, too much!”

As Prefect of Police in Casablanca, Captain Louis Renault knows everyone. And everyone knows everyone. He puts everyone at ease, draws them into liking him and wanting him to like them. There's a familiarity amongst both locals and tourists which forces him to put on a facade of efficiency within his administration. If he wants his fellow officers and the rest of the populace in Casablanca to listen to him and respect his authority when he gives orders, he has to round up twice the usual number of suspects and make out reports that reflect said efficiency. If he doesn’t take these measures, it’ll be absolute chaos in the streets and any violations of neutrality in Casablanca will reflect on him. Or so he claims. But you’ll sooner shoot Captain Renault than trust him, because you know the truth.

He’s a handsome, middle-aged Frenchman, debonair and gay, but withal a shrewd and alert official who’s embraced the corruption and vice that comes with his police uniform. He agrees to do whatever will impress his Nazi superiors and help maintain his cushy position of power. He’s perfectly fine with his normally extremely controversial behavior of opportunism, but only out of self-interest. He has no conviction. He often blows with the wind and the prevailing wind happens to be from Vichy. He has no qualms about who his actions hurt in the process. To him, they’re circumstantial collateral for what he considers a necessary evil. Captain Renault is a tough man to please, both at work and in life. He’s very peculiar not only with the way he runs things in the Palais de Justice, but with women too. He may call himself a romantic who gets by on charm and charm alone but, to you, he’s a rake, an indomitable playboy, a scamp, and so on. He’s a hedonist who’s gone through women faster than cigarettes and only ever seems to care about nothing and no one but himself.

While lower ranking officers deliver critical documents that they need him to sign off on, men and women desperate enough for an exit visa swallow their pride. They try to sweet talk him with praise and admiration. An honest man would feel bad, they'd be terrible at his job, but he loves it. It’s a thrill for him to listen as they gush about what a great man he is, only to have to act apologetic when he says his hands are tied and he can’t provide them an exit visa. No matter how much he wants to help, he just can’t. Compliments don’t pay the bills. They only serve to stroke his ego. While he does take great pleasure from that, there’s something else he’d rather have stroked by such beautiful women. His price can only be paid one of two ways: Monetary compensation or sexual favors.

And indeed, many beautiful women with very little pocket money have come to him in hopes of obtaining an exit visa. He’s taken out countless breathtaking blondes and brunettes for dates at Rick’s while they grin and hang on his every word, willing to do anything for him in exchange for an exit visa, regardless of their marital status. No one is indispensable to him and everyone in his life fulfills a purpose. In the years he’s worked for Vichy, you’ve never seen a genuine emotion from him other than greed. You pity him just as much as you do his victims. He knows the importance of give and take, but other people are simply pawns to him. He always keeps his word and fulfills his end of the bargain by procuring the exit visas, but it’s not just money or sex he’s taking from these women. It’s their bodies, their pride, and other precious things they hold dear. Once his price has been paid one way or the other and he’s filled out the exit visas, all the promises he might’ve made while engaged in the throes of passion die on the wind that he blows with, the very same wind that dries the ink on his signature. He gets everything he wants as an officer, everything he needs.

You know that Captain Renault and Rick have some sort of mutual agreement or understanding that involves Rick paying him in bribes so that he’ll turn a blind eye and look the other way, permitting Rick’s establishment to remain open while illegal gambling and other underhanded dealings are taking place. You sometimes notice Emil handing him roulette winnings when you walk into work. You thought nothing of it at first, but you eventually caught on to what was really happening. No man could ever be as lucky as Captain Renault is, unless the games were fixed in his favor. No wonder Rick bought this place for a song. But it isn’t your place to speak up or complain about it. Even if you do, who’ll believe you? It’s not always honest work, but it’s work. As long as he signs your paychecks, what Rick decides to do with his money is his own business.

There’s much activity at the various tables and far worse things occurring, such as black market dealings, human trafficking, and sexual extortion, which seems to run rampant due to the corrupt officials who participate in such shady activities. All about you there’s the hum of voices, chatter and laughter. The occupants of the saloon are varied. There are Europeans in their dinner jackets, their women beautifully begowned and bejeweled. There are Moroccans in silk robes. Turks wearing fezzes. Levantines. Naval officers. Members of the Foreign Legion, distinguished by their kepis. And your least favorite of all, the Germans who are loyal to the Nazi Party. Everybody comes to Rick’s.

Everyone seated at the table looks at the dishes that have been prepared upon Rick’s request. Many of the dishes are unfamiliar to Major Strasser and Herr Heinz, but Rick’s place doesn’t provide free food samples. Carl gives them recommendations, and they have very little reason not to trust the opinion of a fellow German. The first time Captain Renault sets eyes on you is when Major Strasser wants to summon you in front of his comrades so he can thank you in person for the fine meal they just enjoyed after the appetizers and main course is over.

“Why don't you send for her? Bring her here so we can thank her ourselves.”

“I'm sure she's too busy.”

“I doubt she's too busy to answer a summons from you.”

“I don't want to embarrass her. Carl?”

“This is the busiest time of the kitchen staff’s day, sir. Er, maybe it'd be better...”

“No. Fetch her.“

“Very good, sir.”

And then you come from the back, pink in the face, your hair pasted to your forehead with either steam or sweat. You’re child-like in your demeanor but clearly an adult. You smile in the way inconvenienced people do. It’s likely you have orders to fill and now some big customer wants to speak to you in person. While you smile at the suited men, your fingers are being crushed in the rhythmic grip of your other hand. You look like a woman who’s done all but given up on life. Your once white uniform is stained and your hair greasy. Your eyes have a strange sunken look and are threaded with scarlet so densely that they appear pink. Your cheeks glow under broken veins, your actions are slow, clumsy.

Even though you’re a total mess, Captain Renault thinks you’re beautiful. He barely focuses on anything the men seated next to him are saying, too busy watching your every movement, listening to your every word. He wants to commit everything about you to memory. The way you pick at your fingernails, the way you sweep stray hairs behind your ear, the way you maintain eye contact and speak of your work with pride even when you’re flushed and out of breath.

“ls something wrong with the dinner, boss?”

“Not at all. No, we apologize for interfering with your duties in this strange and inconsiderate way. Major Strasser and Herr Heinz here just want to thank you for tonight’s meal.”

“Before we left Germany, we hadn’t had much opportunity to try foreign delicacies. We were a little apprehensive at first since most items on your menu were unfamiliar to us, but your waiter gave us some recommendations and we trusted his word. We’re glad we did. This was one of the finest meals we ever had outside of Berlin. Very well done, miss.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you fine gentlemen enjoyed it. Mr. Blaine was kind enough to give me this opportunity. He’s opened my eyes to a world of knowledge I knew nothing of. Maybe I'll stay a cook all my life, but I have choices now. Interests, facts at my fingertips. And I'd never have had any of that if I hadn't come to Casablanca.”

“Well said. Quite a testimonial.”

“May I go, boss? Only I’ve still got the dessert and the savories.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

You make a small awkward bow and retreat, the smile vanishing from your diminutive features and your pace stretched out wider than what looks comfortable.

Ever since that day, Captain Renault has requested that a special table at Rick’s is kept reserved for him, one that allows him the best view of the kitchen. He loves to watch you through the kitchen window. You’re an artist of food. He sees your great mind so immersed in every sense, using that expansive intelligence you call intuition. He sees the love you have for this way of giving to others, this deep avenue for self expression. Here in the kitchen you’re at one with all this, the food, the spices, the flames, and a feeling of music even when none plays. He would sit here all day just to watch you, to feel your smiles and those facial expressions that are the hallmark of a genius at work more than see them. As a chef, you see brilliance in food, a potential to help and heal others, a way to show them how the sublime is simply a mixture of the ordinary. It’s your genius at play, seeing what the rest of them don’t. He’ll even make small talk when he can, usually when you ring the bell to alert Carl an order is ready to go out.

You’ve noticed something else that’s strange about Captain Renault. Every time he comes here, he seems to get free drinks. But you’ve never once seen him eat anything after that first night. No matter how long he stays, no matter who’s seated with him at the table, no plate is ever set in front of him. Only the occasional glass for any alcohol of his choosing. Why doesn’t he ever get himself something to eat at Rick’s? In his own words, as the Perfect of Police, he’s constantly busy and often doesn’t have time to take care of himself. It’s not unusual for him to get home late from a long day at the office and fail to do basic things like eat something or take a shower. He either forgets or just puts it off until the morning when he wakes up and gets ready for the day.

But he doesn’t always realize that eating something that would qualify as a snack instead of a meal quickly in the morning and warming up leftovers in the evening isn’t enough. He takes a lot of time training his secretaries because they need to be the grease to keep the wheels turning while he demonstrates the efficiency of his administration to his superiors by arresting twice the number of usual suspects. They need to be on the same page so that the monotony of filling out paperwork can be done as soon as possible. Not because he wants to take credit for all the work that’s done, but to make sure that the work that's put out is always believable and plausible, whether or not the reports made out are false or not. Training someone takes a lot of time, energy and money, none of which he has.

Over time, you find yourself wanting to take care of him. You don’t like how he keeps odd hours and hardly eats anything. And when he does eat, he has the cheapest meal on the menu, usually the same soup night after night, week after week. So you cook him better, more savory meals using whatever’s leftover in the restaurant and still fresh enough. There’s a roast chicken in the pantry and a previously made broth you found on the stove, so you make do with what you have. You make him another soup, but one that’s full of cooked meat and vegetables. You store it in a thermos and pack it in a bag. Sitting beside it in a Tupperware container is a chicken sandwich. You’re unsure if he even drinks coffee, but still make him a cup with sugar cubes and cream on the side in case he wants to add either.

You bring it to him personally while he’s in his office, and he devours the whole thing in seconds. Quickly setting the soup aside, he picks up the sandwich and savors the taste of the chicken, bread and mustard as it all comes together inside his mouth. When that’s finished, he happily over-sugars his coffee and drinks it down, feeling contently full for the first time in years. You worry he’ll get a stomach ache and make himself sick from eating so fast, but you’re glad he enjoyed it. It seems he doesn’t eat a great deal, and that worries you. Even though he doesn’t take his job all that seriously and doesn’t work very hard, he’s still human and should be eating and sleeping well. To work in the kitchens is to work for the love and nourishment of others, to give of yourself, to put your soul into the food. He’s very grateful to you.

Every Monday and Friday morning you come in early with a basket of freshly made baked goods that you leave in the break room for everyone to enjoy with their coffee. You always separate them into two batches, one for the night shift who are about to leave and one for the day shift who are starting their day. Needless to say both shifts appreciate having a little something to either start or finish their day on a good note. You make him and his fellow gendarmes all so happy, and food does that, right? It feeds the soul, brings smiles and bonds, makes everything so much better. Even if you think you're being subtle, everyone knows that every week you have a little something special for Louis whenever you bring him homemade lunches. He doesn't have the time nor the energy to cook for himself and by bringing him his lunch he doesn't have to eat at Rick’s. He pretends like it's not a big deal but you can see a difference in his mood and confidence. There's a twinkle in his eyes that didn't used to be there and you hope he never loses it again. You've heard him make comments here and there about his shape and the way he looks. You think he’s perfect the way that he is, and you know that he’s only teasing and not being self-deprecating.

"Sweetheart, you need to stop bringing me food or else my trousers will cease to fit.” He looks at you as you walk into his office with a very familiar brown paper bag in your hand.

"Are you going to start bringing yourself food?" You arch a brow, knowing the answer before he even says it.

“You know I don't have the time."

"Then I won't stop bringing you food." You put the paper bag on his desk. He shakes his head and tries to give it back but you don't take it. "Just say thank you, Captain."

He sighs and gives up. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You smile brightly at him.

“I fucking love you, babe.”

“Of course you do.”

“Any chance?”

You flick out your tongue from the side and curl it upwards, as if you’re thinking about it. You place your hand to palm him through his uniform pants. You give him a quick squeeze before walking backwards. “No, you can wait. I've got a red-hot Russki with her finger on the trigger if I don’t get her lunch order in. Sacha is talking her down by distracting her with drinks and conversation so I could get away just long enough to hand you your lunch. But now I gotta go deal with it.”

“I don't mind the two of you.” He grabs your arms and pulls you back into his embrace.

“Go on, fuck off!” You put your entire hand over his face and push him away. You blow him a kiss before leaving his office.

It's the same fight every week and you win every week. He scares some of the locals and tourists, gruff and intimidating on the exterior, but he’s softer towards you. He insists that you move in with him, wanting privacy with you so he can indulge in showing you just how much he cares for you, but you politely decline. You like having your own space and he respects that, so you come up with a compromise instead where he’ll come over to your place certain days of the week and you’ll come over to his place on the other days. Rick has noticed how close you and Louis have become and he's not sure how he feels about it. He's known you for months now, so he recognizes the look in your eyes whenever Louis is around. You like Louis and there's no denying it. He makes you laugh and he's always sweet to you. You've become close friends and it's not rare for people to see you out and about with him.

It isn’t long before people start whispering about the two of you. It starts when they notice you eating lunch together every day and it only gets worse when word gets around that you’re officially dating. You do your best to ignore the lingering looks or the not so discreet whispering wherever you go. Louis tells you it’s just jealousy or, more likely, resentment and hatred towards him for how he treated women in the past. He’s a changed man now, but they don’t know that. They can gossip all they want. Neither of you care. Your friendship is more important than the opinion of the bored housewives of Casablanca.

You’re working late, which isn’t unusual for either of you. Your jobs make it sometimes difficult to spend time together. There are times when he'll work all day until it’s well past midnight and the early hours of the next day have arrived, without having a second to sit down. Other times he'll work until the middle of the night and, on some occasions, it’s both. It’s the same for you. Usually whoever gets home first just lets themself in and makes themself comfortable, or goes straight to bed if they’re so exhausted that they can’t keep their eyes open. Tonight is no different, as you tell Louis he can just let himself into your place with the spare key and make himself at home until you get off of work since he’ll probably finish his shift before you. You tell him not to wait up, and he teasingly tells you that he’ll wait up if he wants to.

In your apartment he pulls out a cookbook that he purchased. He stands at your kitchen counter and starts flipping through it. He doesn’t look up as he keeps turning the pages and frowns as his eyes move across the page with the recipe he decided on. He had gone out to buy some alcohol and cigarettes, and found this book in the Arab market. It had been an impulse to buy the thin leather bound volume. You both agreed that he should leave the grocery shopping to you since you’re the expert in that regard. You always know what to look for to determine if something such as bushels of potatoes are of good quality and how to bargain for a fair price.

You’re a wonderful cook. Always making hearty and filling meals that taste delicious. It’s hard to eat food from the Blue Parrot or his own god awful attempts at eggs and toast after being spoiled by the food you offer. Captain Louis Renault is a man of many skills and talents, but he isn’t well-learned in the arts of the kitchen. Before you came into his life, he didn't do much more than toast cheese over bread and add a slice of already cooked meat to it since he’s just a poor, corrupt official and couldn’t afford much else. There may or may not have been past incidents where he accidentally started small fires, making him apprehensive about using the oven. But he tried. And he wants to try again. He wants to do something for you. Something that in some way will thank you for all of those past meals. Something that requires more time and effort than just eggs and toast.

He isn’t sure where you keep your ingredients, so he opens almost every cabinet in his search of what he needs. As he rummages through your pantry, he finds something hidden in the very far back of the shelf. Arsenic, cyanide, strychnine. Poisons of varying levels of toxicity. He starts to panic internally as he thinks back to all the lunches and dinners you made for him in the past. He wonders if you had put any of these poisons in his food. But you couldn’t have. He never once felt ill nor did any of his gendarmes. But why are these here? If neither he nor they are your intended target, who is? You don’t plan on committing suicide, do you? You seemed so happy in all the time he’s known you, but now he’s doubting his own perception of the past. If the demands of the culinary job at Rick’s is getting to be too much for you to handle or you’re plagued by invasive thoughts that are making you miserable, you would tell him. You wouldn’t keep these bad things close to your heart, locked away so he couldn’t see, just for his sake. Or would you? He’s not so sure anymore.

It won’t do him any good to get all worked up about it now. For his own peace of mind, he decides to focus on the task at hand. Before he assumes the worst and literally worries himself sick, he’ll bide his time and let you decompress from your long shift at work. He’ll ask you about his discovery after dinner. Once the timer goes off, Louis stands back and displays a grumpy look, muttering to himself as he admires his work. The meal he prepared looks okay, but still he worries that you won’t like it. He hates this. Never before has he worried about pleasing or impressing a woman outside of the bedroom. But now he’s afraid that you won’t care for his efforts, or worse, he’ll fail horribly. He sets the table as he waits for you. He keeps the food warm on the stove until you finally come driving up the road. Your smile when you see him makes his heart thump wildly in his chest. His expression doesn’t give away his nervousness, but his fingers twitch against his thigh as he resists the urge to meet you halfway.

"What's this?" You ask, curiosity sparkling in your eyes as you notice the crockpot on the oven and the casserole pan on the kitchen counter.

Louis’ eyes slide over to the still warm dishes before muttering his reply, “I made dinner."

"Really?" The surprise in your voice makes him tick nervously.

"Yes. You’ve been working so hard at Rick’s and have always made meals for me and my gendarmes at work, as well as for us when we’re both home, so I wanted to try my hand at cooking something for you instead. To show that…that I love you.”

You set your purse down and walk up to him, but he’s not looking at you. Your arms slide between his and go around his back. "Thank you, Louis. I know you’ve been very busy lately too, so I appreciate you doing this for me. I really do. I love you, too.”

He rolls his eyes and begrudgingly puts his arms around you. "It's probably going to be vile,” he warns. Your laugh makes his stomach flutter, filling him with a sense of lightheartedness.

"That's okay," you assure him, giving him a quick kiss. "I’m proud of you for making an effort and doing this all by yourself. It was so thoughtful of you, darling. You know how they say it’s the thought that counts. And you didn’t set the kitchen on fire, so you’ve already exceeded my expectations,” you tease as you kiss him again.

You’re all soft smiles and loving eyes at him throughout the course of the dinner as you tell him about your day.

“When I got off of work, I pushed the door open and walked outside. Unfortunately I could see a group of women, wives and mothers, all gathered around and gossiping like they always do. I could feel their stares on me, making me feel uneasy. I ignored them. I could tell they were talking about us. I had to walk past them to get home.” You take a deep breath and shake your head, as if to shake off your nerves. “I was almost out of earshot when I heard them say my name and laugh. I stopped walking and huffed, annoyed. I slowly turned around and looked at them. 'Anything I can help you with, Mrs. Mayhew?’ I said as politely as I could. Usually that makes them lose all their courage and fold immediately, not wanting a confrontation, especially so late at night. Not tonight though. Apparently whatever alcohol was in their systems was making all of them feel brave enough to be catty. ‘Aren't you even a little bit ashamed of yourself?’ Mrs. Mayhew said, her voice laced with an accusatory tone. Her question surprised me. Ashamed of myself? Why would I be ashamed of myself? That’s exactly what I asked her. ‘You're throwing yourself at Captain Renault every single day when he’s so much older than you. Desperate, much?’ She looked at me, almost disgusted. ‘As if you’ll be any different from all the other women he’s taken to his bed. Don't kid yourself, honey. Way before you came along, there were a lot of women who thought they were special too, only to be tossed aside like a used toothpick. They all came and went, most of them aren’t even in Casablanca anymore. You really think you’ll be lucky enough to be Captain Renault’s woman? No. You’ll just be his whore. Once he takes what he wants from you, he’ll get bored of you and move onto the next beautiful young woman that catches his wandering eye.’ Mrs. Mayhew rolled her eyes and shook her head disapprovingly at me before she turned around, putting an end to the conversation—” You used finger quotes when you said the last word. “—If I can even call it that. It’s true you’re so much older than me. But we’re both adults and unmarried, so it’s nothing scandalous. I don’t care about our age difference, darling. And I know you don’t either. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not really sure why I even told you. They aren’t going to ruin my day, darling, not when you went through so much effort to make tonight a romantic night for the two of us.”

Usually he loves listening to you tell him about your day but, this time, it only makes his blood boil. Not at you, but at those odious women for harassing you. But he can’t get angry now. It wouldn’t do you any good. All he can do is hold your hands and squeeze them reassuringly to comfort you. He wishes more and more that he didn’t have to question you about the poisons in your cabinet. He trusts you, he really does, and he knows that you know that. He doesn’t want you to think that he’s tricked you into an interrogation or is threatening you into making a confession, but he’s just so worried about you. He doesn’t care where you got them from, but he needs to know why you have them. Once the table has been cleared and the dishes have been washed, he broaches the subject gently or, at least, as gently as he’s able. He’s not the Prefect of Police looking for a reason to arrest you. He’s just Louis, your Louis, your concerned lover who doesn’t want you to wind up in a concentration camp or dead.

By this point in your relationship, it’s pretty clear to you Captain Renault has no love for the Nazis. He never did. He never went all that far out of his way to help them out. There were subtle hints that you picked up on indicating that Louis had been quietly sabotaging Strasser’s agenda this whole time. While he and Strasser were in his office at the Palais de Justice, he told his Nazi superior there was no way Rick would hide the letters of transit in his café after Strasser suggested a raid to get them. He subtly reminded Victor Laszlo that obliging Strasser’s offer of an exit visa in exchange for the names and locations of anti-fascist leaders across Europe would be helping the Nazis destroy Europe. Strasser looked at Renault sharply, but saw only a noncommittal smile on his face.

Still, when he voices his concerns, you can’t help but let out a small scoff. It comes out involuntarily, almost like a reflex. You immediately apologize for your reaction when you see the wounded look in his brown eyes, making him look like a kicked puppy. You know Louis means well and you don’t mean to brush him off so coldly. His fears are very much valid in this scenario. It’s just…tragically ironic, isn’t it? He wants to protect you from a fate you’ve already suffered once before and another fate you’re not afraid of. You regretfully tell him that it’s too late for you in regards to the former and you’d welcome the latter with open arms so long as you believed you did everything you set out to do. He doesn’t understand what you mean, so you sit with him and hold his hands as you tell him the truth, the whole truth.

It all started when you and your twin sister were eleven going on twelve. It was 1927, and your parents just divorced. The court said that children should stay with their mother and, while your mother agreed that children should, she believed neither of you would be very happy staying with her since you both loved your father so much more. Your father was no hypocrite and was glad you did. But your parents knew perfectly well that if either you or your sister were miserable, your mother would be miserable too. So she asked your father to talk to the both of you, see how you felt about it. He was glad to do it. He took you and your sister out to dinner, but the three of you hardly ate anything.

“You'll see. You'll be very happy with your mother. Your mother loves you. You know that, girls, don't you?”

“Yes, Daddy. But you love us too, don't you, Daddy? Why wouldn't we be happy with you too?”

“Well, I don't know if I can explain this to you, girls. You see, your mother and I are of different faiths.”

“I never noticed any difference, Daddy.”

“Me neither, Daddy.”

“Well, I mean, religious faiths.”

“You believe in God, don't you?”

“Oh, certainly, I do.”

“Well, so does Mommy. She told us so.”

“Oh, honestly, we don't see any difference.”

“Well, girls, it's... uh, you see... l'm Jewish. Your mother is not. Now, if you stay here with your mother, you will never know what it is... I mean, if you come to Europe with me, it's different there...and people may look upon you as... Oh, this is very difficult to explain to children.”

“I suppose it's easier to explain to grown-ups, isn't it?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, if you don't want us, Daddy...”

“…I suppose we can always live by ourselves.”

“Oh, my darlings!”

“Oh, Daddy. Daddy. Please take us with you, Daddy, even to Europe!”

“We won't be any trouble. we promise!”

“Shhh. Girls, girls—“

“Oh, please, Daddy. We promise!”

“Well, darlings, there are wonderful schools in Switzerland.”

“And mountains. Oh, Daddy, please speak to Mother. Maybe she'll say yes.”

“She will, darlings, she will. Shhh.”

“Oh, Daddy.”

“Daddy... Do you think Mother will be very lonesome?”

“Not too lonesome, darlings.”

Over the years, you received handwritten letters from your estranged mother, who was probably enjoying being the center of attention at all her fabulous parties and having a series of affairs with lovers much younger than herself, living well on the extremely generous settlement your father left her - half his fortune - and hardly giving a thought to you and Fanny, her daughters. She was probably relieved to be free of the encumbrance of her children, since she didn’t make any effort to see either you nor Fanny for many years. All you ever received from her were sporadically sent letters.

“My darling daughters...where does the time go? I thought I could surely see you this summer…”

“My darling daughters, it is terrifying to think...that so many years have passed and we still haven't seen each other...but Mother misses you, and...”

You were a nineteen-year-old woman when imprisoned alongside your father in a concentration camp. He urged you to flee to safety with your twin sister and return home to your mother in New York while you still had the chance, but you refused. Although you could, and he even told you that you should, you wouldn’t just leave your father behind in Berlin. You didn’t want to just abandon him to whatever fate the Nazis chose for him. You were frightened of the Nazis just like your sister was, of course you were, but you could conceal it better than she could. You turned that fear into power, into motivation to survive in spite of the odds that were stacked against you. The Nazis didn’t frighten your father, so you wouldn’t show fear in the face of your oppressors either.

Your father was stripped of his entire fortune, his freedom, and even his eyesight. You were forced to watch as they tortured him, helpless to do anything against the armed guards. Knowing that you were watching and couldn’t look away unless you wanted to get shot, your father tried to put on a brave face for your sake despite being in excruciating pain. He tried to be quiet and just bear it through gritted teeth, but he still involuntarily let out sounds of anguish which was music to the Nazis’ ears. Though the Nazis didn’t touch you that day, you flinched. Every cry, every whimper from your father felt like the lashing of a whip against your skin. Your heart felt like it was being squeezed so hard you couldn’t breathe. As you were forced to listen, you stared at the Nazi commander, burning the image of his face into your memory. He had to have felt your eyes glaring daggers into the back of his skull, but he didn’t care. Your father’s blood stained his jacket, but he didn’t stop torturing him until he was completely blind and half-dead. Only then was the inhuman monster satisfied. He looked so smug as he took everything from your father except his life. You nursed your father as best as you could with whatever supplies you could get your hands on. Materials were scarce and often makeshift, but you’d find whatever you could use and get creative if it meant you and your father would live another day. No matter how abysmal the conditions were, you had to hold onto hope. The Nazis wouldn’t kill you that easily. They could very well try.

You keep a diary and in it you’ve written about anything and everything, from your time in Switzerland all the way up to now. You’ve done well to write using an encoded language that only you understand in case it ever falls into the wrong hands. Your time in Berlin taught you that. Everyone was under surveillance and nobody was safe. You’ve worked extra hard and taken extra precautions to keep your secrets safe ever since you were stripped of your right to privacy.

You had friends and neighbors who were outright killed, while others died from suicide, starvation, or disease. The Nazis wanted you to feel like you were alone. Nobody to help you. Nobody to protect you. They dehumanized you. They took your freedom from you. They took your property and possessions from you. They put you in a cell and took everything they could take except your life. And you believed that was all there was, didn't you? The only thing you had left was your life, but it wasn't, was it? You found something else. In that cell you found something that mattered more to you than life. It was when they threatened to kill you unless you gave them what they wanted...you told them you'd rather die. You faced your death. You were calm. You were still.

Whenever you felt your hopes of freedom dwindling, you traced the message that was carved above your bunk in your cell and read, "It is time to remember. If there is a God, he will have to beg my forgiveness.” You would never know who carved that message. A past prisoner who was more than likely dead and had been before you and your father ever arrived. But whoever they were, you hoped they were at peace. Their message filled you with determination to survive every damn day until you either died, were liberated, or escaped. That message from a ghost motivated you to endure. You vowed to the dead that you would keep fighting. No matter what the Germans had at their disposal, no matter what contraptions they used to torture you and break you down mentally, physically, and emotionally day in and day out, you wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of witnessing your surrender. Come what may, you and your father would endure this Hell together. You would resist the evil that operated these death camps. Even if it killed you both.

Even you’re not exactly sure how you managed it, but you and your father escaped around the same time as Victor Laszlo. Since he was a much more prominent and influential figure as the leader of a rebellion group who supported the Resistance movement, he was Public Enemy Number One. The Nazis focused all their attention and energy on recapturing him. Taking advantage of their distraction, you and your father slipped through the cracks and were able to get away. Now your father is back home safely with your mother in New York City while your twin sister is married and with her husband in Seattle. But not you. Following your escape from the concentration camp, you spent years hunting for the camp commander who took everything from you and your father. You went all the way to England, where you ended up working as a cook for a Free French garrison stationed way out in the countryside, with no street signs to tell you where you were for miles and miles. With cows, hay bales, and barns, it was a quiet place that looked more like a dairy farm than a base of the famous squad, Victoire. To think that all those incredible bombings came from a quiet place like that. It seemed a strange environment for one of the deadliest squadrons in the service, but the French didn’t mind the quiet. They rather enjoyed it.

In 1941 you finally received some very valuable intel from Captain Freycinet, a liaison officer who was in charge of the whole operation, on the whereabouts of the Nazi commander. With his help, you assumed a new identity and traveled to Casablanca in French Morocco, North Africa. You found him. Major Heinrich Strasser. You made sure to change your appearance enough so he wouldn’t recognize you. And indeed, he didn’t, not even when you were stood inches away from him at Rick’s. But you’d recognize him from miles away.

Your escape didn’t change the fact there were millions of children and their family members who died every year in concentration camps since before the war even began. Even now as you speak, more are dying every day from malnutrition and starvation, in a world able to produce more than enough food. Who would be their voice during this holocaust? Artificial famine is still being used by the Nazis as a weapon against whoever they consider undesirable. Their agenda needs challenging, those starving kids need champions. Who will answer their call? Who will take effective action? Who will free them from this inhumane torture and give them good health? You can’t just sit around twiddling your thumbs and wait for the war to end. You can’t just bear witness to the suffering around you and do nothing. You got out. You want to help others get out too. You want your survival to mean something. You won’t leave Casablanca until Major Strasser is dead by your hand.

Hitler is a vegetarian. He never eats any meat. And Hitler is so paranoid that the British will poison him — that's why he has fifteen girls taste the food before he eats it himself. The food is delicious, only the best vegetables, asparagus, bell peppers, everything anyone can imagine. And always with a side of rice or pasta. But this constant fear — those girls know of all those poisoning rumors and can never enjoy the food. Every day they fear it’s going to be their last meal. But neither Major Strasser nor Herr Heinz nor any of the other Nazis have such a luxury in Casablanca.

Death by arsenic is heavy-metal poisoning, meaning it would have to accumulate in the victim’s system to kill them. A massive dose would be immediately detectable, as arsenic has a bitter, nasty taste— Imagine getting a mouthful of powdered aluminum. No one would have gotten past the first bite before spitting it out, and a residual mouthful of arsenic, while not the greatest thing for one's liver or kidneys, is not fatal. Even if the victim could choke down such a large direct dose, death would be a slow, agonizing process over a period of days as their organs slowly shut down. You tell Louis that you’ve been using a different poison, one that’s odorless, nearly tasteless, and dissolves instantly in liquid, making it untraceable. It’s among the more deadly poisons known to man and you’ve already begun lacing Strasser and Heinz’s food with it. Nobody has noticed, not even Strasser or Heinz themselves. They’ve accredited their illness to Casablanca’s climate or some sort of virus going around and spreading through the air. You tell Louis he can either help you or not, but it makes no difference to you. Nothing he can say or do will convince you to change your mind. You emphasize to him that what you’re doing isn’t revenge. It’s retribution.

You and Louis both watch the Nazis drop like flies in the aftermath of your grand scheme. The deaths are spaced far enough apart that the uptick in illnesses and deaths are blamed on something going around in the air, like influenza. Herr Heinz dies before Major Strasser. He takes a turn for the worse and just never wakes up again, despite attempts at resuscitation. When the doctor examines him and an autopsy is performed, nothing is found in his system that would indicate foul play. His death is ruled as being caused by his heart, attributed to his diet and alcohol intake. He was rather fat, after all.

While the Germans mourn, you bide your time and get cooking, waiting for an opportune moment to slip Major Strasser the final dose. His immune system and metabolism are stronger than Herr Heinz’s was, so it’s taking longer for the poison to work, but it matters not. Major Strasser, angered that he and his fellow Nazis are drowned out while singing a patriotic German tune by "Marseillaise," a Free French anthem sung by the club's other patrons, led by Victor Laszlo, orders Louis to find a reason to close Rick’s establishment until further notice. The Germans think they’ve won a battle against the French Resistance in doing so. Major Strasser has since worsened considerably, but he’s a very stubborn man who refuses to display weakness, so he keeps working.

Come that fateful morning in which you’ve planned for yet another name to be listed in the obituaries, you make coffee for yourself and Louis. He nearly takes the thermos with the poisoned tea by mistake, but you’re quick to let him know, stopping him just in time before the poison even touches his lips.

“Don't drink that. Never.”

“My dear, do we have to do this? Must we?”

“Yes. You have no idea what they'd do. I would be taken from here. Locked away. Tortured until death by hanging or firing squad. Made an example. And if they ever found out, if they ever even suspected you were a part of it, you’d suffer the same fate as I. I’ve come too far to be interrupted now. I can’t turn back. We can’t turn back. We either succeed together or we fail together, there’s no other choice. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. And I trust you to know what you’re doing too. Don’t get cold feet and turn on me now.”

Around lunchtime, you pay a visit at the Palais de Justice under the pretense of bringing food and drink to Louis and the gendarmes again, like you’ve always done. Everyone says they can smell blackberry pie and, indeed, that’s what you’ve baked as a special dessert for them. You pass it off to Lieutenant Casselle before entering Louis’ office, the door closing firmly behind you with a soft click. Louis is with Major Strasser, who remains seated while Louis prefers to stand at his desk. Major Strasser’s strength is failing him, but he does everything in his power to hide it. Louis is drinking coffee and eating whatever's left from the baked goods you brought him last Friday, but Major Strasser looks as if he hasn’t eaten a single bite since he woke up this morning.

“Major Strasser. I’m surprised to see you’re up and about. Your landlady said she found you at the bottom of the stairs this morning. Are you feeling any better?”

He doesn’t respond, but his expression gives away his displeasure at his landlady having loose lips. Clearly he was hoping that nobody else would find out about what happened this morning.

You hold up two thermoses. “I brought you some homemade broth. Do you think you can eat?”

“No.”

“Then you must drink something at the very least. Here, I also brought you some herbal tea. It should clear up all that congestion in your throat and in your chest." You open the other thermos and slowly pour him a cup. You guide it into his unsteady hands. "It will help with building your immunity,” you assure him. “You must get stronger.”

He takes a sip of the hot tea, but grimaces at its acidic taste. "It's just a little bitter."

"I'm afraid that's the medicine. I tried to put as much sugar and honey in it to lessen the bitterness, but I see that my efforts were to no avail." In actuality, what he’s tasting is the laced sugar powder. In small amounts it kills the victim slowly enough that nobody will notice.

“I can cope." He continues to take small sips of the tea as he readily watches you.

Major Strasser is very sick. He’s dying. Of course he’s dying. He didn’t eat the broth. Doesn't matter. You put the poison in the tea too. In the evening, you’re told by the landlady that Major Strasser has retired early and won’t be taking anymore visitors. Louis uses his authority as Prefect of Police to create a believable distraction that allows you to sneak upstairs and into Strasser’s room. He’s laid up in bed and startles at your sudden appearance, but is so weak that he can barely move or speak louder than a hoarse whisper. He can’t even muster up the strength to pull himself into sitting up.

“What are you doing here? I told my landlady I didn’t want to be disturbed. How did you get in here? Doesn’t matter. Get out.”

“I tended Father in a bed. Though, now that I think about it, it wasn’t much of a bed. More of a cot, really. The man who put him in that cot was a brute. He hated Father. He tortured him, beat him within an inch of his life. The cruel and unusual punishment inflicted upon him rendered him completely blind. He never quite healed. He was bedridden for a long time. But I cared for him. Fed him. Bathed him. Combed his hair. Rubbed liniment on his scars. I made him better. I'll do the same with you. I'll make you better. You’ll be out of this bed soon. I promise.”

The more you talk, the more perturbed Strasser becomes. He looks at you as if you’ve gone insane. He has no idea what you’re rambling on about. Everything you’re saying sounds like utter nonsense to him. He hides it well, but you can still see it. The thinly veiled fear in his eyes. He’s little more than wholly paralyzed, incapable of moving a muscle beyond twitching his fingers, blinking, and, of course, moving his lips. He can’t call for help. He’s at your mercy, what he believes is the mercy of a madwoman, but you have none to give. Not tonight.

“Look at me.” You force him to maintain eye contact with you. “Do you know who I am?” It’s a rhetorical question and he doesn’t answer, only stares at you. You need to refresh his memory. You weren’t expecting anything else. “No. You still don’t know me. Well, can’t say I’m surprised or disappointed. I’ve been beside you all this time and you never once recognized me. But I can’t fault you entirely for it. The years no doubt have changed me, Major. But then, I suppose the face of a Jewish banker’s daughter — the face of a prisoner in a concentration camp — is not particularly memorable. I’ve had my eyes on you ever since you took away my father’s eyesight.”

Major Strasser’s expression, usually that of hardened iron, morphs into one of horrified realization. No… You can’t possible be… Both you and your father died. He wants to deny what’s right in front of him but, as he looks upon you now, really looks at your face, your eyes… he sees so much of your father in you and realizes he was gravely mistaken. His voice is laced with unbridled hatred when he seethes through his teeth, “Y/N Skeffington!”

You shake your head. “No. That’s the name given to me upon my birth, the name I had to abandon before I came to Casablanca. The immigration official on Ellis Island wasn't a good speller, and ‘Skeffington’ was the closest he could get to ‘Skevinzskaza’. That’s the name I want you to think about as you die. Give Herr Heinz my regards when you see him in Hell.”

You listen closely as Major Strasser lets out his last feeble gasps and then stops breathing. Nobody notices you leave as you close the door behind you and go back down the stairs. They’re still distracted by Louis. After you leave, Louis strays behind for a few minutes longer to convincingly sell the deception before making an excuse to leave. When you get back to the safety of your apartment, you stand for a long moment, sweat dripping from your face, exalted. Then you sink to your knees, overcome. You did it. You finally did it.

You and Louis have your bags already packed and ready to go. You’ve already gone through everything in your apartments with a fine tooth comb so that no evidence tying either of you to your crimes would accidentally get left behind. The plan is to get in and get out, as if you’re both ghosts and nobody ever lived in these apartments. Once you decided on what Strasser’s death day would be, it was go time. So you and Louis have been prepared for this day for days, possibly even weeks in advance. The poison is untraceable and undetectable once it enters the human body. It’s highly unlikely it’ll come back to you, that’s true, but neither you nor Louis want to take any chances. Your work here is done, so you have no reason to stay in Casablanca a minute longer. Nobody will check on Major Strasser until the morning, so you have a few hours to get away before anyone discovers his body or reports his death.

“There’s a Free French garrison in Brazzaville. I could provide us a passage. Rick has already used his letters of transit to travel there and join the fight on the side of the Allied cause. I could cable him and—“

“That’s not a bad idea, darling. But I have an even better one. My godfather is the owner of a mining company that specializes in diamonds. He’s based in South Africa. I can cable him ahead of time so that he knows we’re coming. He and my father started off as business partners, but became very close friends over the many years they worked closely together. When Fanny and I were born, he was unmarried and had no children of his own, so Daddy made him my godfather. I’m confident he’ll welcome us with open arms. I’m his favorite godchild.”

“Are you his only godchild?”

“Yes, but the point still stands. His morals may be gray at times when it comes to business, but he would never give us away. He loves me and respects my father too much to even think about betraying me. If there’s another man in the world who would help me get away with murder apart from you, it’s him,” you joke at the end to try to lighten the mood and calm Louis’ nerves.

When Louis takes your hand and helps you step off the train, your godfather is stood there on the platform, waiting to greet you. You let go of Louis’ hand and your godfather immediately pulls you into a crushing hug. He kisses the side of your head, mussing up your hair a little bit.

“There she is, my darling girl! I'm so glad you're here. It’s been so terribly long since I last saw you. Too long. Let me get a good look at you.” Not letting go of your arms, he steps back and looks you up and down. “You look healthy. So you’ve been sleeping well? Eating well? That’s good.” He hugs you again, then wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you? Tell me all the news. Did you have a good trip? I got your cable but, tell me, is your father worse? I was just beside myself, nearly sick to death with worry when I heard the dreadful news that the Germans captured the both of you. If I could’ve, I would’ve used all my money and influence to get the both of you out. But money had completely lost its power over there. The only thing that motivates those devils is the thought of total extermination. Then to hear that you escaped, but that poor Job was rendered completely blind…”

“Dad is doing just fine. I won’t lie, It’s been an adjustment and isn’t always easy for him, but he and Mother have reconciled and are living together again. I believe they’re happy now. I’ve called and written letters to home as often as I’ve been able, though it isn’t nearly as much as I’d hoped. I’ve been very busy lately. I’m sorry I haven’t had many opportunities to write or call you to keep you informed on what’s been happening. I know how frightened for Dad and I you must’ve been. The not knowing must’ve been the worst. After Dad and I escaped, he went to New York. Uncle George found him sitting on a park bench, sunning himself. He immediately took him back home to Mother. I went to England and stayed there for a while, then traveled to Casablanca. But I had company all the time. Speaking of which, Uncle Fred, may I introduce you to Mr. Louis Renault? Louis, this is my godfather, Fred Martingale.”

The men act cordial and shake hands.

“How do you do, sir?”

“I’m doing very well. Thanks for asking. You both must be tired from your long journey. Come, let’s all get in my car and I’ll show you to my house. I’m sure you’re both eager to get settled in. There’s guest rooms ready for the both of you. Or if you’d prefer, I could arrange to have you share a room. Just make sure to lock the door first whenever you use it.”

“Uncle Fred!” You sputter, your face heating up from embarrassment. You know exactly what he’s implying, but your admonishment isn’t serious. You can’t help but laugh.

You load your bags into the trunk and get in the car. You want Louis and Uncle Fred to use this time to bond, so you sit in the backseat while Louis sits up front in the passenger seat next to your godfather. As he drives along the desert roads, you’re the first to break the silence and make conversation. You want to help Louis to get comfortable and build rapport with Fred. The sooner you can all get past the awkward part, the better.

“So what have you been up to, Uncle Fred? How’s the diamond business going? Have there been any major changes since we last corresponded?”

“Oh, for the most part it’s been business as usual, I would say. Though we did have a bit of excitement for a time. Do you remember that man I told you about, Michael Davis?”

“Yes, I remember. Wasn’t he the one who came across a cache of diamonds in a prohibited mining area located somewhere in a remote region? He was caught by the mine's police, but refused to reveal the diamonds' location, even under torture at the hand of the diamond company's security chief, Paul Vogel. But I thought Davis left South Africa?”

“He did. For some time. But then he came back. To make a long story short, he came back because he wanted the diamonds and had no reason to believe they wouldn’t be in the same place he left them. I hired Suzanne Renaud, a trollop from Cape Town, to seduce Mike so he’d tell her where the diamonds are, information which she would relay back to me. Unlike Vogel, I wanted to use guile rather than force. Suzanne, or whatever other aliases she went by, was a talented actress and I trusted her to get the job done.”

“And then what happened?” Louis asked, intrigued.

“Mike made me a deal that appealed to me. He said he’d trade the location of the cache of diamonds he found in the desert if I helped him save Suzanne from Vogel. The diamonds for the girl. I personally didn’t think she was worth it, but they were in love and there was no changing his mind. He shot Vogel dead, sailed off somewhere with Suzanne to start a new life, and I got my diamonds.”

“Good riddance, I’d say. I never did like Vogel. That horrible man was always so power hungry and sadistic.”

“You know, in his way he was quite a remarkable fellow. Nasty, but remarkable. Your timing is impeccable, actually. When I got your cable, I had just recently got back from holiday. I had an early flight the day before yesterday and haven’t yet had a chance to unpack my bag.”

“Pleasant holiday, Mr. Martingale?”

“Very nice, yes. When we get to my house, you can fix yourself a drink there, if you like, Mister...uh, Mister...? I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Renault. Louis to you, Mr. Martingale. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Fred. If we’re to be on a first name basis, you should drop the formality and use mine too, don’t you think? After all, we are practically family, Louis.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You are attached to my goddaughter, are you not? You’re her…her lover, her boyfriend, her beau, whatever you’d like to call it. Why else would she bring you here? Then you must also know that I cherish the woman sitting behind us as if she were my own flesh and blood. So from now on, call me Fred.”

“Then I’m Louis to you, Fred.”

“For now. I imagine it won’t be much time until you’ll officially be like a son to me. Am I right? Will there be wedding bells in your near future? I never know what to think anymore. I'm being constantly disillusioned. Has money completely lost its power? Is everyone motivated now by love? First Mike and Suzanne, and now you two.”

“Why do you think I agreed to come here with your goddaughter? Why do you think she asked me to assist her in her goals? From the moment when I first set my eyes upon her, I knew I'd met the one woman that I wanted to be my wife. Even though she was a mess and smelled of sweat, grease, and oil, I was a little overwhelmed by her beauty. It’s a gross understatement when I say that she was the most beautiful woman to ever set foot in Casablanca.”

“Well put, Louis. When the time comes, I can provide you with any diamond of your choosing. I have a fine selection here. The Starlight, The Eureka, The Cullinan Dream, The Kazanjian Red, Tiffany… Nothing is too expensive for my goddaughter’s hand.”

You piped in, “Just as long as it’s not too gaudy.”

“Gaudy? Impossible. Any diamond you wear could be nothing but glamorous, my dear.”

Once you’ve settled in, you use the phone to call home.

“Number, please.”

“Long distance, please.”

“Long distance.”

“I want to put in a person-to-person call to...Mrs. Frances Skeffington, New York City, 2926.”

“2926?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Hello?”

“Mother. It’s me. I know it’s been an awfully long time since we last spoke, but—“

“My darling! Oh, where have you been? Where are you now? Your father told us that you were going to England, but we haven’t heard much of anything since!”

“I’m currently in South Africa and staying with Uncle Fred. He’s more than willing to provide me with room and board until the war is over. As for everything else… It’s a long story, Mother, but I promise I’ll tell you it in person as soon as I’m able to come home. Though I feel I must warn you now that it likely won’t be until after the end of the war is announced. Traveling isn’t safe for me right now. But I promise I’m perfectly safe here. May I speak to you for a moment about something else? Something very important?”

“Of course, darling. Yes?”

“After I left England, I spent nearly three years in Casablanca, North Africa. While I was there, I got a job as a cook in a café and…I met someone. Someone I love very much. His name is Louis Renault, and he and I are going to be married after the war is over.”

“Louis Renault. Well... I had no idea. But, darling, have you known him very long?”

“I've known him several months, longer than I've known you.”

“But don't you think you should have talked it over with your mother?”

“Have I a mother?”

The line is silent for a few moments, and you wonder if maybe your mother hung up until-

“That's not kind of you, darling. I've always loved you very much.”

“Sort of a long-distance love, wasn’t it, Mother?”

“I never wanted you or Fanny to leave me. It was just that... Well, just that you loved your father so much.”

“And it was just that our father loved us so much.” You pause for a few moments as you gather your thoughts. “Oh, Fanny and I know you had a difficult choice to make. You couldn't be both a beauty and a mother.” You pause again as your words sink in. “Oh, Mother, we used to worry about our looks too...when we were thirteen and all arms and legs. Fanny used to hate that brace she had on her teeth. I hated the acne on my face. But Father would always comfort us. ‘A woman is beautiful only when she's loved,’ he'd say.”

“Yes, he said that to me once too. I didn’t understand or appreciate it then, but I do now. Darling, do you suppose it's too late for me to be a real mother to you now?”

“It would have to be a long-distance love again.”

“I'm willing to try.”

“It wouldn't work out, Mother. Once the war ends, Louis and I want to move back to his home in France. I’ll get a job as a cook, and Louis’ been expressing interest in leaving behind his law enforcement career and pursuing other fields where he can find more honest work. Though I do want you to come to my wedding. I really do. Well, I suppose you wish me luck.”

“Of course, darling.”

“Is Dad at home? I’d love to speak with him, if I can.”

“Yes, he’s here. I’ll pass the phone to him.”

“Thank you. Goodbye, Mother.”

“Goodbye, darling.”

You hear the sounds of the creaky armchair as your mother gets up. You listen to her faint voice in the background as she tells your father that you’re calling. You listen to the armchair creak again, this time a bit louder from your father’s heavier frame as he sits down and gets settled. Hearing your father’s voice fills you with immense relief and elation.

“Daddy… forgive me for not calling you sooner. So many things have happened since we parted ways, some unexpected, some wonderful. But I just had to hear your voice. I just had to tell you… I am engaged. Rejoice for my mind is made up.”

“Engaged? My goodness, sweetheart. I… I don’t know what to say.”

“I hope that, in time, you’ll understand. My prayer is that you’ll accept that this is my decision, my free decision. I know I went about this backwards. Forgive me and Louis for not asking your permission first. But we—“

“Permission? You don’t need my permission, silly girl. You’re nearing twenty-six, aren’t you?”

“I know. But I would like to have your blessings, Dad. Do I h—”

“You don’t even have to ask. Wherever you go, you may take my blessings with you, whatever that means.“

“Oh, Daddy. It means more than anything. More than anything! I promise that I won’t be married until after the war is finally over. Once France has healed, I’ll leave for Paris with Louis to marry. We don’t want a big affair, something quiet with just close friends and family. But trying to convince Uncle Fred of that is proving difficult. He’s accustomed to the life of a bachelor, and the overindulgence in the world’s finest luxuries that comes with it.”

“I always thought he spoiled you too much. Well, I do hope you get your way, darling. But your godfather can be just as stubborn as he is charming. Don’t let his charm persuade you into letting him plan your entire wedding. It should be your day, not his.”

“I know you didn’t get to see Fanny’s wedding to Johnny Mitchell, Daddy, but I want you to see mine. You, Mother, and even Fanny and Johnny too, if possible. Please, Daddy, will you come over for the wedding? I want you to give me away.”

“We'll see. We'll talk about that later. I don’t know about your sister and her husband, but I promise your mother and I will do everything we can to be there. I promise I won’t let you fall, but you must promise me the same when we walk down the aisle together.” His voice has a teasing quality to it near the end. You’re relieved that he hasn’t lost his sense of humor after all the horror he suffered.

“It’s not just a promise, it’s a deal! Goodbye, Daddy. I promise I’ll write or call you whenever something interesting happens in my life until next we meet. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Goodbye.”

[fanfic-she-wrote]

Reunited at Last

#22 “They won’t take you away from me ever again.” from this post.

Captain Renault x reader Requested by anon. Hope you like it! 😄

Warnings: Mentions of concentration camps and nazis.

It had been many months since Captain Renault had last seen you, which for him felt like years. He began to wonder if he ever would see you again. He knew you were committed to fighting against the nazis no matter how much he tried to discourage you. You couldn't just sit idlely by while they tortured and killed innocent people and for that he admired you. How you were willing to put your needs aside to help others. It was something he struggled with, especially before he met you. Before he was just a corrupt police chief who gambled and drank his nights away at Rick's, going from one woman to another. Now there was only one woman in his life and that was you, and he was afraid that he had lost you forever. Where were you now? Had the nazis gotten a hold of you? Those questions tore through his mind every night. He desperately tried to drink them away, but to no avail. Even his best friend, Rick, couldn't ease his mind no matter how hard he tried. There was no booze or woman, or anything that could stop the pain and the worry he felt by your absence. How he longed to hold you tightly in his arms, never letting you go. Just to touch you one more time...

He downed one more shot, slamming the glass on the counter. The cafe was dark and empty, not a soul in sight, except for him and Rick, who had hidden himself away in his office doing his usual businessn of counting the money that went in and out.

Suddenly, the front door creaked open. Who would be here at this hour? He wondered, turning around on the bar stool. "There's a curfew--" he started, his speech slightly slurred from all the booze he had consumed that evening. "Y/N?!" He gasped, his eyes widening as they fell upon you standing before him.

"Hi, Louis." You said with a smile. He lost his breath. He missed your smile, your perfect smile. It was like the sun peeking through the clouds on a rainy day, warm and welcoming.

"Is it really you?" Louis asked, getting up and reaching for you.

"I missed you." He sobbed, placing his hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I missed you too, Louis" You said softly, forcing back tears. How happy you were to finally see his handsome face after so long, after everything you had been through.

"What happened to you?" He asked, stroking your cheek. You placed your hand on top of his, holding it there.

"Does it matter? I'm here now." You said, avoiding the subject. It was too painful.

"It matters to me. I thought I'd never see you again." He answered. You sighed and turned away.

"They captured me. I was at a concentration camp. I only just managed to escape a few weeks ago." You told him, clutching tight onto your bag. His heart sank. He felt both furious and somber at the thought of you in some place so horrible.

"All I could think of was getting back to you." Tears started to well up in your eyes as the memory of that place returned. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

"Don't worry. You're here now and they won't take you away from me ever again." He swore as he stroked your hair.

"I'm sorry. I should never have gone. I should have stayed here with you..." You cried into his shoulder.

"Shh. It's alright." He whispered softly into your ear, trying to calm you. You took a deep breath. How warm his body felt against yours. You remembered how much you had missed that on cold lonely nights.

"I love you, Louis." You said kissing his cheek.

"I love you too," he said as he ran his hand underneath your jaw and pulled your face close to his, placing his lips against yours in a long and passionate kiss. "And don't forget it." He said, practically breathless, only pulling away for air.

"I won't." You assured him, sealing your promise with yet another kiss. How you missed this. No one could kiss you quite like he could.

"Come on. Let's go home." He said, guiding you towards the door.

"Yes, home." You sighed contently as you exited Rick's, happy to be in your beloved's arms once more.