10th June: The misplaced

The hand stilled for a moment, the continued with its ministrations.

"We wont."

There was a quiet promise in those simple words.

Bastien continued to work silently for a few more minutes, gently cleaning off dried blood and sweat. Then he stood up rather jerkily, threw the cloth down and rammed his hand into his pocket. The moment he had let go of the cloth, it had started to shake.

With visible effort the lieutenant slipped back into his usual role of regimental clown, but once it was in place again, there was nothing in his stance that would betray anything but utter insouciance.

"Now that I have gone to the enormous trouble to bring it here, we might as well put a clean shirt on to you. Although, as I already mentioned, white really isn't your colour."

Bastien was a good officer and man. Though he acted often like a clown, and joked and may have appeared as if he could not take life any less seriously, Saint-Hilaire knew that it was not so. It showed, perhaps now, perhaps in moments when he allowed his guard down and when he no longer wore that mask that others were so often entertained by.

He allowed him to return to his role now. Because he needed it just as much as the other man did. It brought a smile back to his face, and made thoughts less unhappy, and the present more pleasant. Perhaps part of Saint-Hilaire's behavour was influenced by the medicine he was given to stifle the pain some.

"What colour then suits me so much better than the white, that you insist on being the worst for my complection." He made a gesture far more expressive than was needed, and partly regretted it.

The gesture made the skin of his back be pulled. "...I cannot go about without my white linen, be it shirt, sheet, or trouser. So, You better have a better suggestion than that.. .should you wish to be pleased by my appearance rather than so insulted."

"A gentle rosé, I think. Or perhaps apricot? But until I have decided on the best colour for you, it will have to be regimental blue, I fear. But don't worry, the silver lace will make a splendid contrast to your eye-patch."

Bastien shook out the uniform he had brought along and used to prop the other man up.

"I would suggest you leave off the belts, though, until you have a bit more tan. Too much white again, you know."

"I think I will prefer to wear the regimental blue. It suits better than civilian clothing ever might." He gazed at the coat and smiled. It was his second one. The first he had lost, taken by the Portuguese, probably torn to bits and rolled in the filth and animal excrement.

His boots had been also taken and if it was not that man,... Andreas.. or something along the lines of that name, that had them, it would be some other fortunate culprit. His trousers, the second pair again, he could soon wear, though he remained tender in certain parts. At least the trousers were comfortable on one's frame and the wounds also healed and would continue to heal.

"It feels as if you wish to match me up with someone,.. so caring you are of the way I look." He said teasingly again. "Would nothing change your mind to give such effort in my favour?"

"As I said, I wish to match you up with quite a lot of paperwork. And I'm always willing to hear good offers."

Bastien chuckled and tossed the shirt over Etienne's head, catching the back of it before it could scrape over the wounds.

"Punishment party is pitching a tent for you, by the way. If it falls down on you or anything else is missing, complain. They got their sentence for making a mess of their own."

"What did they do, if I may inquire?" He was grateful for the fact that his shirt was not scraping right across his injured back. Though he wondered what the surgeon would do when he found that his patient was being entertained so, and was quite lively and going about when he ought to rest.

News of him being an officer might quiet the man down a bit, though hopefully not shock and anger him. An unhappy or angry surgeon was nobody's friend and the death of many.

He struggled with the shirt some even so, and was glad that it was quite wide and big and he did not need to move his arm too much, as the shoulder gave some pains as well.

"I'd rather not need to complain because a tent had thought to assassinate me due to the neglect of those, unhappy at their superior's whim." He answered. Still, being with the 17th again, it was pleasant. "...You do have to tell me though, dear Prayon,.. for I've failed to inquire until now. How have you been since Oporto?"

Prayon obviously hadn't heard the second question, because he started to answer the first even before Etienne had finished speaking.

"First they managed to place one pole into the only molehill the whole of Portugal has to offer. On the polite representation of their officer that they now had a tent more leaning than the bell tower of Pisa, they immediately went to redress that mistake by pulling the whole thing down again, entangling themselves, said officer and the mole in the process. Having with infinite patience sorted out this small hiccup again, the officer then took it onto himself to show them how a tent ought to be pitched and for his troubles got knocked down by said pole."

During this narrative, Bastien had slipped into his most formal voice, as if he was giving a report to the emperor himself. When he had finished, he crisply saluted.

"In accordance with regulations, these men will pitch all the officer's tents until I am satisfied that they no longer try to use them as a murder weapon or have found a way by which they may continue to do it in Wellington's camp."

"We could always send them to the English. Tell them to pretend to be deserters. ...Ruin the enemy from the inside with their incompetence." Étienne mused, observing the lieutenant. "...I am surprised I have not heard said officer yelling at his men. Pray tell, who was the unfortunate soul that came to suffer the attempt at his life by an innocent pole?"

The 17th could have their small mishaps, but on the whole they were a good band of men. Brave, smart and quick on their feet. While they did not carry with them the rifles, such their greencoated English counterparts, they were still a force that one had to reckon with. But then, he had faith in the French army as a whole. Even the men of other nations that were in their ranks, could prove their worth well enough.

"Said officer has perfectioned the art of yelling at men to a degree where only those yelled at hear it and those whishing to sleep are not disturbed. In great consideration for the company clerk who has to to file every report, said officer also refrained from doing any unnecessary paperwork, in return for the men's promise that they would have aquired the art of pitching a stable tent before said officer sets eyes on them again or the future occupant of said tent arrives."

Without much ado, Bastien pulled a pair of stockings out of the knapsack, tossed the lower half of the blanket back and took one of Etienne's legs into one hand. When he saw the bandages, his grip tensed for a moment, but then he had himself under control again. Brandishing the stockings in front of Etienne's nose, he asked lightly:

"Do you want to put these on or is it to warm to bother? You don't appear to have another pair of boots left, by the way, so either you delight us all by appearing in dress shoes, borrow my old ones or make do with non-regulation foorwear."

"I am glad you return to me my stockings, well washed at least." He studied them and with mild amusement added. "I suppose that you have used them... while I was away, but had a good servant, perhaps a dear lady, that did your washing for you? A pleasant lass, not of this country of course. As the women here may as well have signed their deal with the devil, if such there is one."

He wrinkled his nose, though in truth his stocking did not smell and just as he had said, it was rather clean. He thought on the matter of shoes. Dress shoes, old boots or barefoot, those were his options. Bandages could do for walking anywhere inside, such as a house even if the floors may be dirty. Stockings would serve well at such a time, but when he was to thread through mud, cross the rocky terrain or even just scamper across grass, it would do to have something more solid.

"Should my dress shoes not be for when the occasion demands it?...and ..then, might I ask for your old boots, or how much do you wish to charge me for them?" He asked half serious.

Bastien raised the foot in his hands a bit, propping it up on his knee, then swiftly put on the stocking.

"I will charge you of course heavily for them!", he answered laughing.

"You are to attent at my dinner table every evening, keep me amused for two hours, perhaps join me in a bottle of brandy if available, and most importantly never to mention that these scruffy old boots ever belongt to me. I wont have my reputation ruined by you!"

"You demand a great sacrifice to be given for a mere old pair of boots." Étienne mused, watching as a stocking was inched up his leg. The bandages were neatly hidden under the fabric and if one did not know them to be there, or if he was to wear his shoes, it would almost appear as if there was no injury there at all.

He wiggled his toes, testing that the stocking would not be too tight on them, especially as the bandages took some of the space. "I accept." He spoke, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Though I cannot promise amusement , I will certainly apply myself to the best of my knowledge and skills to do so. I hope this is enough." He averted his gaze for a moment and chuckled. "The brandy... you shall provide? What of our brother officers who shall feel jealous of our , your fortune?"

Of the boots he was certainly never to mention their origin. It was not only Prayon's reputation that would be at stake, but he truly did not wish to say, that he had been so unfortunate as to have lost his own pair. "You wish me to present myself as your company every day and yet you worry about your reputation?"

Bastien deftly replaced the foot on his knee with its brother and replied:

"I will of course make it known to all, sundry and a few that only great kindness of heart and unrelenting zeal in the bettering of my subordinates have made me make the sacrifice of enduring your presence every evening, but that to do so requires strong spirits. Everybody will understand this."

Putting that foot down as well, he shook out the trousers. Busying himself with straightening the legs out again, he added in a light voice that sounded just a trace strained:

"Besides, there are only very few now that would come calling at my tent in the evening, and even less that would feel jealous because they did not get invited to share a bit of liquor."

He held the trousers up for inspection, eyeing Etienne warily: "Will you require help with them every day? Because if yes, I better check which of my men is due for punishment next."

"..Why?" A flamboyant man, such as Prayon, a charmer and a pleasant light company, ought to have many knocking at his door. Yet, it felt as though he was not as fortunate in his company. Was it that, the reason that he wanted him, Saint-Hilaire, to come every day?

He would be pleased to come, no less, but it did make him wonder.

".. I promise you, that I will not require this assistance... sir." He glanced at his trousers somewhat speculatively. "Every day... and you may have the men rest in peace, at my expanse." He touched his temple briefly. " Though, should you feel inclined, I shall welcome assistance always." He chuckled. "One cannot ever be too spoiled, be it king, emperor or a mere sous-lieutenant."

Bastien flashed a quick grin. "Right you are, of course. And because I would never ask anything of my men that I wasn't prepared to do myself, you will now kindly extend both your legs and put your feet into these holes here."

He helt the breeches invitingly open, the legs hitched up.

"Then I will decide whether your rear is a sight other can be exposed to. Do I need to call for the carriage, by the way, or would you care for a stroll in the fresh air? I have also some men who have their officer's eye on them for gross inability to carry their pack over any distance without 'losing' things. They could do well with some exercise in carrying something that actually might strike out if they try to loose it."

"May I attempt to stand first, and then enter each foot in there?" He was still holding onto his sheet and looked a bit embarrassed now, that he was to get fully dressed. Having allowed the sheet to slide lower, it was bundled up about his waist, concealing all.

"...I'd not.." He hesitated then and chewed on his lip. That there was mention of his rear ought not to have upset him, and he tried not to show even the slightest emotion towards it. "...We've got no carriage, daft thing, sir." Saint-Hilaire spoke. "....I'll pass on being carried by the men....I'd not like to find myself crashing into the ground, just because one of them had lost its footing. Intentionally, or not.

".....But what are you suggesting now..that I return to our camp.. today?"

Bastien had obediently knelt down, offering his shoulder for additional support, and placed the breeches on the floor. At the last question he looked up sharply, however, puzzlement in his eyes.

"Yes, I think I did. As you have denied the presence of any fair maidens in your sphere of habitation here, I rather fail to see the attraction of this place. Surely our own surgeon can look after you as well?"

Saint-Hilaire lifted one leg, then the other and walked into each pantleg, shifting his weight to remove it from the fabric, which could be pulled up. He kept his balance by leaning against Prayon a bit, his arm resting on the man's shoulder.

"...He can, of course." He hesitated. "But... may I say my ..goodbyes with the men who'd first found me? It is, I think it would only be fair that I do not just disappear. They might think I have died and been taken to the pit.. or some such." He explained.

Prayon grunted while he tried to sort out the fabric and pull the waistband up.

"Didn't I tell you often enough that I still have to prevent future mayhem from happening by finding LaRoch? If he proves only half as troublesome as you did, you might expect to leave in two hours at best. Time to say goodbye to all and sundry and even take a nap. Here!"

He pulled the breeches to Etienne's thighs, then bothered with the lower legs again.

"That part is for you to sort out. Mind you close them up properly before you say goodbye to my angel, though. I hate to get up early to meet anyone in the cold fog."

"How long have you been missing LaRoche?" He asked, wondering why the man would think their own would remain lost with a different lot of people.

"You speak so much of this lady, that I am tempted to charm her into my humble abode only because you've told me not to." He grinned. Of course he had neither the interest at that moment, nor the physical health to do much but send her away again, but it was a delight to tease his brother officer.

He adjusted his trousers and then began buttoning them at the front. It has been a while since he had worn them, but the sensation could be easily adapted to. "Perhaps she would be willing to give me a kiss of farewell." He teased again, observing Prayon's face for a reaction.

"Always remember that your tent can come down again!"

Bastien grabbed the knapsack and turned it around, making a pair of very well-worn boots, Etienne's dress shoes, a waist-belt and a short sabre cluttering out. Before it could hit the floor, he snatched a small metal flask and put it into the sack again, then threw in the dress shoes.

"Now sit down and let me pull on those boots!", he commanded. "If you are extremely good, then perhaps I will allow that one kiss, just to prove my point about that eye-patch of yours; and of course with the secure knowledge that on further acquaintance you don't stand half a chance against me."

"You've thought ahead, I see. I do not remember having had possession of those shoes before, and yet they are here." He spoke nonchalantly, observing the effort through which Prayon was going, and the things he had returned to their proper place. There would be things he would not carry with him a while yet. Nothing would touch his back, he was sure of that. Not until it was completely healed and it could stand any touching, pressure or contact.

Again he lowered himself tenderly to the chair, and shifted until a comfortable position was found. Then he held his foot forward. He debated whether it would cause any discomfort when the boot was pulled over his toes, but decided it should not.

"A kiss, for a start." He whispered in a charming, soft tone. "A kiss to the lips, a kiss here, then there...and a tumble in the sheets for a good measure." He purred. He touched his patch. It made his face look more decent than if the gaping hole was wholly revealed. A nice touch, albeit out of necessity. "She might just abandon the 86th, to come with me." He said innocently.

"You perceive me utterly amazed, enraged and insulted. No-one ever had dared to accuse me of thinking before, ahead or otherwise."

Bastien sounded as enraged as if he had been accused of cowardice.

"I shall ask you out for this as soon as I manage to find a decent pair of pistols for you. And when I killed you for your insults, I will avenge the honour of my angel and kill you all over again! A tumble in the sheets! She deserves to have exquisite love made to her! If she ever abandons the 86th, it will certainly not be for such a ruffian as you are, when she can have such a cultivated, dashing hero as myself."

Bowing over Etienne's legs, over the course of that last verbiage Bastien had struggled to put the boots on the feet without allowing them to touch the toes. His ingenuity appeared somewhat at an end there, because try as he might he couldn't manage the bend at the ankle. With an uncharacteristically helpless face, he now looked up to Etienne, his eyes questioning.

"I shall then accept the challenge and take both of the pistols that you will provide, and earn good fortune in selling them onwards." Saint-Hilaire spoke, as if he truly meant to do such a thing rather than face the duel, but taunt him instead about the usefulness of the guns.

"Cultivated hero? How many have you wronged and misguided in your affections, that they now cry their pretty eyes out, and promise eternal hatred towards the likes of you. Girls that might have gone so far as to lock themselves in a place of worship!" He spoke in such a dramatic tone, that one would think he was truly affected by the plight of poor girls. It was fun, amusing and a good laugh.

He gazed at the boots and looked thoughtful. ".. Perhaps we might abandon the use of boots now.. and I will wear them another time. A day from now, or two, so that i am more certain .."He hesitated. "It is only that I have no nail on my toe, and that is what hurts and the type of my injury."

Bastien looked at it for a moment, then with very precise movements disentangled the boot from Etienne's foot and placed it and its brother back in the sack.

"No boots today, then! They are over-rated anyhow. Much better for the feet to have fresh air."

He jumped to his feet, sack and sword in hand.

"Sooo ... will you hold court here or do you come outside now?"