8th June, Guarding prisonnières at night

Being struck in return, however glancingly, did nothing to improve her temper. Neither did being so roughly grabbed by both arms. The nerve! Missus Tolliver dug her heels into the ground and told both of them in no uncertain terms what sorts of men they were.

Cursing under his breath, Couture struggled to drag the woman away from Charcot, blushing despite himself at her invective. Christ, but she sounded like his mother. He grimaced and shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to banish that particular mental image. "God above, woman, stop shouting!" he cried in exasperation, "He let her go, didn't he?"

Charcot, on the other hand, was immune to the woman's insults, though perhaps he could not hear them. By now both of his hands were covering his ears, but he would have kicked her roundly had not Couture pulled her away. "Bitch!" he exclaimed, spitting out the words as if they themselves had caused his pain. "Filthy - old - poxy - whore!"

The conversation about who would have which woman had not been one Jérémie cared much for, so he had gone elsewhere. At the outbreak of raised voices, he returned, rather more quickly than he had the first time.

"What have you two been doing?" He demanded, hesitating for only a second before shoving Couture away. Clearly neither of them were capable of calming this woman down. "Madame, hush. Please. Whatever has happened is over."

Couture stumbled out of the way. If Rosie wanted to try his luck at collaring the mad woman, Couture was only too happy to let him.

"That old bitch jumped up and attacked us," Charcot snapped.

Letting out a slight whimper, Polly drew back at the sound of the men's argument. Things had gone from bad to worse as far as she was concerned, and hearing the increasing anger in their voices had her worried about what would happen to her and the older woman now.

"Wha' are they sayin'?" she asked in a whisper, inching closer to Mrs. Tolliver. She wondered if running was a good idea, or if they would chase after her. Running had worked the other night with Janet.

Did she.

"While you were just standing here innocently," Jérémie said flatly. He doubted that was true, for he remembered the conversation being held when he had been here earlier.

"Aye, that we was," Charcot retorted. "What's it to you anyhow? Tell the old hag to go back to sleep and stop causing trouble."

"What are they saying?" Missus Tolliver made a dismissive gesture, privately relieved that the grip on her arms had been released. "It hardly matters. The usual nonsense of claiming innocence."

Which she was not about to tolerate. She turned her glare onto the Frenchman who'd intervened and said, "You must be their sergeant. I'd suggest you keep a closer watch on these men, as they cannot keep their sinful hands to themselves."

She rounded on the one who'd just spoken. Old hag, was it? "And you," she spat. "Do your ears want another boxing? Bite your worthless tongue, Monsieur."

"Shut up!" was all that Charcot could summon for an answer.

"Everybody shut up," Jérémie snapped. His initial concern was going fast. It was almost sounding as though they were all at fault. He might have been better off not getting in the middle of it.

"You. Madame. Go back where... back to the others. Take the girl with you." He very nearly added a 'please', but that would have sounded too pleading, he thought.

Couture obediently attempted to stifle the laughter which the woman's most recent outburst had triggered. He could not, however, refrain from grinning at Charcot. Poor bastard, that had been brilliant.

Charcot rubbed painfully at his ears once more, looking sullen in his disappointment. "Bloody waste of good food," he muttered as he began picking over the ground for the dried apples he had dropped. "Little thieving magpie. I was only tryin' to be friendly, wasn't I." And the wine bottle had better not be spilled or he was going to be upset.

"Oh, aye. Very friendly," Couture chimed in, his laughter finally spilling over. "You should have seen your face, mate."

"We'll see your face when I'm through with it," Charcot grumbled, making a half-hearted lunge at him.

Couture's feet tangled around something as he stumbled backwards out of reach and he landed sprawling in the dirt. This too struck him as funny, somehow. "C'mon, Charcot," he gasped, "I didn't mean nothin' by it!"

Charcot grumbled and turned away to renew his search. His heart wasn't in a fight really. He was primarily embarrassed and disappointed to have missed his chance. Rumor said that the prisoners would be released tomorrow. "When am I ever gonna get a little woman like that again?" he muttered, stooping to pick up a slice of apple in the grass.

Accustomed as he was to the push and shove (mostly) playful bickering that made up the majority of their conversation, Charcot's lack of fight damped Couture's overtired hilarity. Getting to his feet, he watched Charcot, wavering somewhere between exasperation and concern. "You alright?" Perhaps that crazy Englishwoman really had managed to damage more than his friend's pride.

"Shut up, Couture," was the only answer he received.

There was a barely audible snort from Couture. "That's better." Crouching, he raked his fingers through the grass until they brushed a scattered remnant of Charcot's dried apples. He considered flinging it at Charcot, but, he reflected, chewing on it thoughtfully, that would have been a waste. "Hey, these aren't bad. Where'd you get 'em?"

"Are you eatin' my apples?" Charcot made a grab at Couture's hand, rescuing what he could. "They're mine. Never you mind where I got 'em."