Frogs in the Parlour

No one would store poisons in the same place as ales and wines?

"The English did put us in here especially, sir," Jérémie pointed out quietly, feeling suddenly chilled.

"What is all this?" The young sous-lieutenant inquired seeing the green stained towels on the floor." Who has made a mess here?" He looked around at the gathered and greeted the other officer with a nod.

"I think I'd better sit down," Daubigny murmured without answering. He sank into a soft chair by the fire and tried to ascertain whether the chill he felt was from the residual mud and dampness about his person, or whether it was the presage of something more fatal.

A stranger in a long-tailed red coat came wandering in, his hat under one arm. He wore a sword on a white leather crossbelt but had no sash or officer's epaulettes. There was, however, a loop of white cord on his right shoulder.

"Hey," he said in a light Irish drawl, seeming to ignore everything else but the half-empty bottle set on the floor by the bar. He pointed at it. "I been lookin' for that."

"...Pardon?" Whatever the man was drawling about, it was clearly in English, not the civilized French. But perhaps he might understand or speak the other language too, seeing as his posture and confidence suggested him to be more but a simple private soldier. "This is suggested to be poisonous." He murmured in French, seeing him point at the thing.

Daubigny looked up with mild alarm at the redcoated fellow. He did not recognize the uniform and could not understand the man's garbled speech, but clearly he was a British enemy who knew something about the noxious liquid. Daubigny wanted to ask him a dozen questions, but in his agitated state of mind the English words would not come to him. Instead he simply stood up, pointed at the bottle, grabbed the fellow by the lapels and exclaimed "What!"

The stranger stared in surprise when one of the white-robed men grabbed hold of the front of his coat.

"Steady there," he said. "That bottle yon. That'll be mine, see?" And he pointed at it again.

Bottle. Was he indeed speaking about the bottle? Was that what he had said? Why could these men not enunciate? "Bottle," Daubigny repeated, searching the man's face anxiously.

"Yes, yes. He wants the bottle. He did point vehemently enough at it, monsieur." He nudged the towel with the front tip of his boot. It did not sizzle and appeared harmless now. For whatever reason he decided it was probably indeed poisonous because the colour itself was rather unnatural. He appeared a second later more interested in what else was there. Drink and food, lets hope they had something better than what was spilt all over the floor.

The Frogs seemed to understand the word 'bottle', anyway, McIntyre thought. Even his usual suspicion of them was set aside in his quest to recover the missing item.

"That's it, aye," he said cheerfully. "Good of you to find it."

With that, he picked the half-empty bottle up and took a swallow of its contents.

Daubigny stared in horror.

"No!"

Jérémie's outburst didn't come in time. The redcoated stranger had already tipped the evil bottle up to his lips. He stared, wide-eyed and shocked, frozen in instinctive mid-grab for the bottle. What would happen to this unfortunate fool? Would he melt? He almost didn't dare imagine.

Perhaps he was the only one waiting in anticipation what would happen to the man. If it was indeed poison, the man would die and everybody would know not to drink it. If it was something out of this world, it would affect the man again, and they'd know what it did. It would sate their curiosity without any harm done to the French. But, if it was only a drink, the man would prove so. It would be perfect and they could quench their thirst safely.

"So, he lives..." He murmured in French, studying him attentively. Nope, no twitching yet.

"What!" Daubigny repeated, this time in a tone of awe. The redcoat seemed to be suffering no ill affects at all from the bottle's contents.

That was good stuff, McIntyre thought. It was an otherworldly drink but he had quickly become fond of it. He lowered the bottle and looked around for its cap.

"Prime stuff," he said appreciatively. And he held the bottle out to the nearest Frog. "Take a pull, you lads."

The man seemed to be offering to share his drink with them. Would it be a terrible sign of mistrust to refuse it? After all, the redcoat had taken a long drink of the stuff and showed no sign of ailment. They would have to trust the rosbifs eventually if they did not want to starve.

Daubigny realized with a pang that he was the most senior officer present. He probably ought to be the one to lead the way into uncertain dangers, be a stirring example and all that. For France, and for the glory of the navy. The man was holding the bottle toward Blanchard, but Daubigny said, "No. I will try it first to make sure that it's safe." In English, he said to the redcoat, "Me. I drink."

Unbelievably, there seemed to be no ill effects from the redcoat's hearty swig of that potion. It wasn't quite enough to convince Jérémie of the drink's innocence - not by a long shot. Maybe it was specially brewed by the English to not cause affliction if they were to drink it.

He was, therefore, not at all opposed to the naval officer's statement that he would try the potion next. Better a salt-dog, really, than a proper marching fellow.

Daubigny took the bottle and saw now that the liquid itself was not green but a rather shocking yellow. It looked as if it would give off light in a darkened room. He closed his eyes, put the bottle to his mouth, tipped it back and filled his mouth. He swallowed it at once. "Ahhh!" he gasped. It burned! But no - it wasn't burning. It was bubbling, like champagne. Like extremely sweet, syrupy champagne without any alcohol in it, heaven help him.

He gave the redcoat a grimacing smile of appreciation as he handed the bottle back to him. "Sugar!" he exclaimed, wondering where the nearest water pump was. "Thank you!"

The sous-lieutenant decided not to trust the offer even after Daubigny's test. It looked undrinkable, no Brit could convince him otherwise. Nor a navy chap.

"Ah, la rosée de montagne!" Madame Bellot exclaimed, entering with a smile. "Oh, not you, Rosy. I mean the drink. Salut!" And she helped herself to a hearty gulp. "Is there more? I should fill my tonnelet."

"There is plenty of drink, madame, should you wish to refill your glass. And more bottles I would suppose, in the cellar, should these come to be scarse or not of your liking." He nodded in greeting to the new arrival, finding it pleasant to know she was French.

He moved from the others and to the cupboard where he picked a glass and one, if Madame would not have wished for one. He reached behind the counter, and picked one of the bottles. He made certain it would not ooze green when opened.

"And I thank you for that, my lad," Marie-Eve said, accepting the glass with a smile. "You're not one of my 86e. I know them all. Who might you be?"

"My name is Saint-Hilaire, Étienne." He paused and smiled politely, inclining his head when she thanked him for the glass. "A sous-lieutenant in the service of the 17th light. A voltigeur. May I be granted to know your name, madame?" He opened the bottle with a light pop, offering to pour some of its contents into Marie-Eve's glass. "May I?"

Paol, who had ducked down behind the bar once more in search of food, reemerged when he heard another familiar voice. It seemed that Marie-Eve Bellot had found her way to that curious place as well. But she was speaking with an officer and Paol remained deferentially silent, regarding the young sous-lieutenant with mild suspicion.

"Another officer," Daubigny said with a touch of relief. "May I trouble you for a glass as well?" Anything to wash out the sickly sweet strange taste from his mouth, and the lingering thought that it still might be poisoned.