8th June, Guarding prisonnières at night

Charcot paced back and forth, trying to keep himself awake. The female prisoners had been quite a novelty at first, but they were just a nuisance when he was wishing to be asleep. Surely the officers would arrange for them to be sent back to the British soon. Baskets of children.

He was falling asleep on his feet again.

"Eh," he muttered, "You still awake, Porkchop?"

Couture's stomach rumbled hungrily. Porkchops.... "Huh?" he mumbled.

"Hey. If you could pick any one of these women, which would it be?"

Couture shrugged, "I ain't particular. Long as she's got some meat on her bones. Why? You ain't sweet on one of 'em are you?"

Charcot snorted. "Nah. But there's one I wouldn't mind showin' the ways of the world." He grinned and scanned the sleeping forms in the dark. "Wee little'un, dark hair. Like a mouse she is. Shy as a violet, don't they say? Just about to blossom out like a rose. You ever had a girl like that? Just takes a man to make her a woman, you know?"

Couture was skeptical. "What you want a girl like that for? Better a lass who knows what she's about."

"If that's so, maybe you better leave her for the men," Jérémie remarked, tramping toward them. "Best still not to stir dozing bees."

"Aye, that's a point," Charcot conceded. "I just like the look of that little mouse. Go on, Rosy, who'd you choose? If you could take your whole pick. And don't tell me you ain't been lookin'."

Who would he choose? What a question to be asked. Then again, Charcot was the sort to ask such a thing so blithely.

He shrugged. "I have no interest."

"Go on!" Charcot scoffed. "We could pick one for you. Who'd you pick for him, Couture? Think he likes blondes?"

"I like ones who do not speak English," Jérémie clarified.

"What's not to like?" Couture grinned, ignoring Rosy's comment. "Hey, what about that mouthy one what's been servicin' the officers? She's blonde, ain't she? Not bad lookin' neither."

"Which one?" Charcot asked. The description might apply to anyone, for all he knew. "Not keen on mouthy myself." He grinned at Blanchard. "I like ones who don't speak. Ha ha!"

"You know. Rosy and Kerjean had her an' that officer's lass all to themselves the first night. Or at least that's what Foucheaux said. Don't you remember? He was griping about it for days."

"Oh, I remember," Charcot said. "Though they never would tell us about it." He could not see Blanchard's face in the dark, but he imagined that it was turning red. "So we'll give Rosy the officer's lass, and me the Mouse, and what about you? Maybe that'un?" He pointed at a snoring dumpy woman somewhat older than most of the others.

"Oh, go on!" Couture spluttered, giving Charcot a shove.

Charcot laughed, not caring if he woke anyone with the noise. "Then pick one!"

"I dunno!" he protested, but after a moment of scanning the sleeping forms he relented. "Fine, there's one lass I wouldn't mind havin' a go at. Plump, someat to grab hold of -- not like your flower mouse or whatever you call her. Nice pair o' kettledrums too."

"That'un with the striped blanket?" he whispered, as if speaking louder would wake the woman in question.

Couture craned his neck to see where Charcot was looking. "Aye," he grinned, "That looks like her."

"Thought so," Charcot replied with a smile. "Foucheaux's been after her too. Think her name's Marthe or sommat like."

"He would," Couture grumbled. "Greedy bastard. Hey," he began, suddenly remembering something, "Your Mouse? She wasn't the one Quentin made pass at, was she?"

Charcot scowled. "Did he? I dunno. Did he get anywhere with her? He'd be a lousy first time." He already felt rather possessive of the "flower mouse," and felt that no one should pluck her but himself.

"I don't think so. I heard Roux or someone got in the way."

"Good," he said with a huff. Then he paused, thinking. "You know, if we was to take requests from the lads - big or small, dark or fair and all - we could choose the girls and send 'em out, one at a time, like. We could make a parcel of money."