It took Lucien over an hour to remove the bullet, not including the time it took to keep his hands from shaking before he started. But somehow, he had managed to do it. The next day or two would be critical. Lucien wiped his hands with a rag and paused at the door. He took a deep breath, hoping he didn’t look as bad as he felt, and went into the parlor.
Camille stood by the window, watching the Germans in the field. “How is he?”
“Weak,” he said, not feeling very strong himself.
“Will he survive?” she asked, eyebrows arched.
He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted, completely drained. “He’s sleeping. I did the best I could.”
A hint of compassion flickered across her face. “That’s all anyone could ask.”
“He’s young,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Then pray that he lives.”
L
