6 June, late afternoon marching

Mathilde's face glowed at the cantiniere's praise, though she kept her eyes bent on the ground as she quickly filled another cup and handed it to Paol.

"It's--" Hot, she was about to say, but he was already on his second mouthful.

"It's good!" Paol echoed Foucheaux, though the words themselves were hardly distinguishable with his mouth full of stew. The liquid scalded his mouth and throat, but undeterred he took another pull from the cup. It was the best thing he had eaten in a long time.

"How much?" he asked, marginally more clearly, looking up at Marie-Eve.

Marie-Eve glanced at Margot and answered quickly before the other woman could interject. "Oh, nothing for today, dear, since you brought us the meat."

"I didn't really help with the meat," he admitted guiltily. "I just.... kind of got into the middle of things." Resting the cup on his knee, he fumbled after his few coins. "Besides, you can put it to better use than I can."

"Well, all right," she agreed, pocketing the coins. "Putting it to better use usually means finding you something good to drink. Eat up, and I'm going to take this to your corporal."

The smell of cooking - good cooking from the odor - told Roux that he was heading in the right direction. Word was that some of the women were selling stew, and he hoped that was right. He had a lump of bread for trade, and a few small coins that he hoped would be enough.

The sight of Kerjean and Foucheaux seemed promising, and Roux hesitated a few steps from the fire with a hesitant smile.

"I heard you ladies might be selling stew?" he asked, willing his stomach not to rumble at the marvelous smell.

Madame Bellot grinned. "You heard right. And from what I hear, you know all about it. But talk to Margot, or Mathilde here. I'm off to the surgeon's for now."

"Thank you," he said, moving aside to give Marie-Eve room to pass. Roux turned his attention back to the others, still feeling slightly out of place. He pulled the chunk of bread he had been saving from his pack.

"I've got this to trade, or a few coins..." he fumbled with the pouch at his belt.

Paol's confused frown vanished and, turning to see Roux approaching, waved him over with a grin. "It's good," he affirmed, punctuating the statement by draining what little remained in his own cup.

*

Margot handed Roux a cup brimming with stew, glancing over his offering with an expert eye. "Keep your coins," she said at length, taking the bread from him.

That earned Margot a full grin, and he accepted the cup eagerly. "Thank you very much, madame."

The stew certainly smelled good, and he hurried to try some, gasping slightly as he scalded the top of his mouth. It was worth it.

"Alain!" Mathilde exclaimed happily. She was navigating the growing crowd with little Remy-Jean on one hip and Foucheaux's clothes on the other.

"Well, hello," he said with a smile. "You look rather bogged down. Need a hand?"

"Them's my clothes," Foucheaux mumbled around a mouthful of meat. "Don't get stew on 'em."

"I'm alright. Remy-Jean isn't heavy. Not like Philippe," she added ruefully. She shifted the bundle of clothes, trying to get a better grip on it, but only succeeded in finally dislodging the coat which had been slipping slowly from her grasp. She cursed, then turned a brilliant shade of pink and looked apologetically at Roux.

Picking up the fallen coat, Roux dusted it off slightly (not that he thought it would have much effect on the bedraggled item of clothing), and handed it back to the girl.

"Looks like you're all set to be like your mam," he said reassuringly.

"Might want to watch the cursing, though," he added with a wink.

Mathilde's gaze retreated to her shoes and she nodded, her lips moving in a barely audible 'thank you' as he returned the coat to her. She was rescued by Remy-Jean who chose that moment to take an interest in Foucheaux's buttons.

"Ah, no, no, p'tit," she exclaimed, "Those are Marcel's. No." Her attempts to disengage him, however, had no effect.

" 'm sorry," she told Foucheaux, dropping the clothes into his lap and prying the cuff free of Remy-Jean's fingers. Thus forcibly bereft, he let out a wail.

Mathilde sighed, cradling him against her. She whisked up one of her apron strings and dangled it over him as though he were a cat, talking soft nonsense at him.

Foucheaux probably would have made some sort of accidentally unkind teasing remark, had not his mouth been full and his head empty. By the time he swallowed his mouthful of horse meat, it was a bit late because the infant was crying. Foucheaux felt a little bit guilty that it was crying because of his own uniform, but he also did not feel that he needed to apologize.

"Oh," was all he said, staring at the baby as it cried.

Who knew that babies were so loud? Roux was distracted from his stew to stare at the wailing child as well. He swallowed.

"Is... is he alright?" he asked.

"Oh, he's alright," she said, her flinching confidence beginning to resurface. She shifted the child so that his head rested against her shoulder, bouncing him gently, "Just noisy."

His wailing cries had grown fainter, subsiding at length with a little whimper. "Pauvre p'tit," Mathilde cooed, kissing the top of his head.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked Roux.

Foucheaux snorted. "Don't give him to Roux. He'll drop him."

The word amongst the company was that there was stew being sold by the mugful, over near one of the wagons. Good stew and available for cheap, too. It was a rumour that Bright reckoned was worth investigating. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a decent meal, or at least one that didn't consist of stale bread and moulding cheese, with the odd piece of tough, leathery meat. He'd been quite effectively cut off by the men in his company after the asparagus incident. The stuffy buggers.

The only saving grace of his mealtimes was the stash of tea leaves in his cartridge box, which had been nicely replenished by taking the leaves from the captured Riflemen. A still-steaming, half empty mug of tea was in Bright's hand as he strolled toward the wagon where the stew was being ladled out. The smell alone told him he was in the right place.

"Smells like a meal fit for an emperor," he drawled as he got close. He took in the scene in a glance and didn't bother to suppress a slight smirk. It was almost a charming sight, the men and their women, with children sprinkled about around them. Worthy of a West painting, or something.

He drained the last of his tea in a single swallow and upended the mug carelessly, letting the dregs drip out onto the ground and the pile of clothes nearby.

"Oi!" Foucheaux yelled as some sort of slop landed on his uniform. It was that bloody rosbif, of course. Only an Englishman would do such a thing. "That's my uniform and it's just been washed!"

There was no contrition in Bright's expression as he glanced at the fellow who'd snapped at him. It would be Foucheaux.

"Sorry," he said with a slight shrug. "Didn't see it there. There any stew left?"

"Aye," said Paol, "Should be. Mathilde?"

The girl looked uncertainly from Kerjean to Bright, then nodded. Edging a bit closer to the Englishman, she held out her hand for his mug.

That was more like it. Bright held out his now-empty mug to the girl, thinking it was just as well he'd let the sodden tea leaves drip out. Foucheaux's uniform would benefit from such adornments, certainly.

"Thanks," he said, as an afterthought.