6 June, late afternoon marching

Foucheaux carefully set down his stew and picked up his waistcoat, seeing now that the slop consisted of wet plant matter, probably tea leaves. "You need to clean this off," he grumbled, scowling at Bright. He did not for a moment believe it had been an accident.

Paol rubbed at his eyes; the darkness behind them seemed to pulse with the same throbbing rhythm as his hand. It took a surprising amount of effort to open them again.

"Let it be, Marcel."

"Only thing I need to do is eat," retorted Bright. He was not Foucheaux's maid, after all, and didn't it serve the bugger right for leaving his clothes lying just anywhere?

"Need to go back to England," Foucheaux retorted, but his heart was not in the argument. He was too tired.

To that, Bright merely smirked, then fished about in a pocket for his wooden spoon. The girl with the downcast eyes had returned with his mug, which, he noted, was steaming merrily. That was a good sign.

"Tastes fresh," was all he had to say, after sampling the stew.

Fresh? A faint, hopeful smile touched Mathilde's face and she held out her hand. That was a good, wasn't it? She opened her mouth to tell him just how fresh it was -- the street hawker banter that she heard so often from her mother -- but her courage failed her at the last and she finished instead by mumbling something of which a number and coin denomination were the only words audible.

The coins, however, did not come from Bright, but from another new arrival, whose reddened face spoke either to embarrassment or irritation.

"I'll have a bit too, please," Jérémie said, deliberately not looking in Bright's direction.

The Englishman smirked again and slurped another spoonful of stew. " 'Bliged to you, Rosy," he remarked airily.

Mathilde looked up, her thin face registering first surprise, then grateful relief as she accepted the coins from Blanchard. With a nod and a shy smile, she scurried off, Remy-Jean still bouncing on her hip, and returned a few moments later with a steaming cup of stew.

Foucheaux looked skeptical. "Why you payin' for his food, Rosy?" he asked. It was none of his business, of course, but when had that ever stopped him from speaking out? And besides, he felt rather proprietary of this batch of stew.

"Because he won't," Jérémie replied simply, then nodded his thanks to the girl who delivered a stew-filled cup to him. With the exception of Bright, this gathering was a vast improvement over the company he'd been obliged to tolerate for most of the day.

There was a rough chuckle from Bright, followed by, "Always was a kind soul, weren't you? Lookin' out for your mates an' all." The Englishman glanced at Foucheaux first, then at Kerjean. "Unlike some!"

He put enough lightness in his tone to make this last remark seem less of an insult, though coming from him there was little doubt as to the spirit of the words. Jérémie's already-red face flushed a little more but he said nothing and instead sipped cautiously from the heavily-steaming cup in his hand.

Paol's brows knit together as the barb struck home. Thinking of Yves and Eugéne and the others, he wondered if there wasn't some truth to the remark, but with a shake of his head, he dragged his gaze out of the bottom of his empty mug and glanced up at the newest arrival.

"Sit down, Rosy?"

The invitation was a welcome one and Jérémie made an effort to smile, but wasn't quite successful at it. He sat, however, and was privately relieved to be off his feet.

"So where you been, Rosy, that you got an extra bit of coin for spendin'?" Bright wanted to know.

Why was he still here, Jérémie wondered in weary irritation? "I was being useful," he replied blandly. It was more than could be said for Bright, certainly. He sipped at the scalding hot stew broth and after a moment added, "I think you should go away."

Paol said nothing, but very deliberately set down his mug, shifting just enough to be able to rise quickly if it came to that, as he half expected it would. It was not in Bright's nature to make things easy, particularly where Jérémie was concerned.

"Aye," Foucheaux agreed. "All the way back to England."

A frown creased Bright's brow, briefly, as he glanced in Foucheaux's direction. He had not missed the deliberate movement from Kerjean, as the Frenchman set his empty mug aside, but he was not afraid of the fellow.

"Never would've took you for a thinkin' man, Rosy," Bright drawled, deciding to ignore Foucheaux. He narrowed his eyes. "But you been real useful, I bet. Let somebody gnaw on your hand, did you?"

Jérémie's face flushed dark and belatedly he tucked his left hand out of sight between his knees. What was he, stupid? There was no other explanation for his forgetting there were noticeable teeth marks on his fingers and the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. Trust Bright to spot it, the sharp-eyed devil.

"It's not your business," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Sod it.

"That's enough." Paol's voice as he pushed himself to his feet was uncharacteristically sharp. Facing Bright, he jerked his head in the direction from which the Englishman had come, "Go on."

Foucheaux looked up in surprise, not having expected such firmness from Kerjean. Things really were escalating if Kerjean was taking a stand. "Mathilde, go and help your maman," he said warily.

Bright lifted an eyebrow as he turned toward Kerjean. The challenge was unexpected, but now not entirely necessary. Even a minute before, he would have resisted such a command, but now he had something better to do.

"Loyal little guard dog you got here," he observed with only a trace of a sneer. "Mind you gag the harlot next time, Rosy. Englishwomen like to bite - but you already know that, seems." He smirked, then lifted his mug in salute and turned to go.

Coming for this stew was seeming more and more like an error in judgment, Jérémie thought unhappily. Even with Bright having departed, the unsettled feeling was back in his stomach, robbing him of his appetite. He lifted the cup, with its rapidly-cooling contents, and wordlessly offered it up to whomever might still be hungry.

Paol frowned with a mixture of surprise and concern at the gesture. Something was wrong and all he could do was stare stupidly at the cup in Blanchard's hand. After some hesitation, he reached out and took it. "You alright?" he asked in an undertone.

No. He wasn't all right - nothing was, it felt. But he couldn't very well state as much. Instead, Jérémie settled for a shrug and a bland, "I have been with the surgeons. Helping."

It was not strictly a lie, anyway.

Foucheaux stared at him stupidly. "What happened to your hand, Rosy?"

Paol prodded Foucheaux with his foot -- something he dearly wished he'd had the sense to do so before the other man had opened his mouth -- before crumpling back to the ground.

What had happened was something he had been sworn to silence about, with the offering of coins - which now resided in the pocket of Mathilde's apron - to ensure his agreement. Not that the bribe was wholly necessary. Jérémie was not at all keen to discuss that particular matter to anyone.

"I was helping the surgeon," he repeated tiredly, then looked over with concern when Kerjean flopped back onto the ground - but it was an intentional movement. Fortunately. Jérémie had had his fill of accidents and scares today.

Roux hastily set down his mug, and crouched next to Paol.

"You alright?" he asked worriedly.

"Huh?" Paol stared at him in apologetic confusion, before realizing that it was his own clumsy attempt to sit which had sparked Roux's concern. "Fine, aye," he added hurriedly, his face flushing, "Sorry." Not hurt, just stupid.