A short story

Meade looked around for a brief inspection of the typical French family room. A red checkered tablecloth covered a small round table in the corner. The linen was clean and spotless, and its carefree edges hung rather clumsily in the air. An empty nursing bottle was on the table, the amorphous solid material slightly opaque with its contents gone. A colorless candle quietly burned beside it, solely and solemnly illuminating the small room.

From across the room, l'armoire with a light pinkish tan greeted the soldier rather shyly, its carvings old and worn but not graceless. Next to it stood an oak-colored, basket-like object that seemed to serve as a petite crib in a rather deprived home. In the shadows, it looked as if it was weaved out of local reeds. A small baby lay peacefully sleeping in it, wrapped in a white blanket that functioned as a sole protection from the cold.

Next to the door in front of which the stranger and the woman still stood, walls extended to either side. To his right was the window that seemed so warm and inviting when he was wandering in the cold, his soul searching for angel's wings that would shelter him from the ominous night; his heart expecting to satisfy the fiery lust deeply hidden inside him. Numerous pots stood in front of the dark window, each containing pink geraniums, white petunias, and azure lobelias. Night pulled its dark veil of jealousy over them, cunningly concealing their charm.

Meade looked to his left. A painting without a signature hung on the cream-colored wall, featuring Gabriel the archangel in the battle. The entire world was revealed in the dark. The wrath of the legendary dragon was exposed in fiery red. With each passing minute, the flame brought more and more souls under its dark dominion. The angel seemed to patiently wait for the end of the battle whose winner was pre-determined: he and his hosts will defeat Lucifer and force Satan into exile, where eternal torment awaits. The edge of his unsheathed sword gleamed in white. However, whether it was the sign of hope and courage, or the reminder of his imminent danger, Meade could not tell. The painting failed to harmonize with the naivety of the room and its contents. A cloud of an unknown fear loomed in his mind, alarming and threatening the temporary serenity that he had found moments ago.

All this time she was silent. Meade looked slowly over at her. Though the woman was small and appeared to be harmless, Meade could feel every inch of his body tense and anxious, his hands half-trembling from the unknown fear.

At that very instant, as if to break the tension, there came three desperate knocks on the door.

"Qui est là?" He questioned uneasily, his voice charged with tension.

"M'aider! Ils vont me tuer!" Lieutenant Kosmoski's familiar voice answered, filled with terror.

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"Qui est là?" - "Who's there?"
"M'aider! Ils vont me tuer!" - "Help me! They're going to kill me!"

I actually wanted him to say "Help," but I figured that chance of free online dictionaries giving me the phrase I want is slim.