4th August, early morning; All is not well

No, the cat's grandmother.  Of course for him!  "Yes.  And your friend in there."

He took the plate from her with a quiet thanks, and retreated to the other room.

"Sorry," he told Charcot, setting the plate down in front of him. "I brought food, though. From the girl."

"Food?" Charcot repeated, as if Kerjean had reported the discovery of a diamond mine in the kitchen.  First Bright was alive and now food, first thing in the morning.  It was unnerving.

"Aye," Paol replied with a faint smile, "An apple and some bread and cheese." Reaching forward, he took one half of the apple and bit into it. It was sweet and tart and he didn't think he'd ever tasted anything so wonderful. It took a surprising amount of restraint not to wolf it down in two or three bites.

He took a piece of bread and cheese as well, reluctantly setting them aside. Bright needed to eat, and he'd shared the meat he'd stolen yesterday, after all.

Charcot reached out and felt the things on the plate, and at the same time heard Paol biting into his apple.  Apple!  That was what he wanted!  He found his half and devoured it, seeds and all.  Then he started rushing through the bread and cheese.  But he stopped abruptly when he heard the sound of the girl's voice coming from the doorway.

"Why aren't you eating?" she asked Kerjean, light mockery in her voice.  "Aren't you hungry?"  She had decided to come and make sure he shared with the blind one and did not just eat it secretly himself.

Paol looked up, blushing at her tone. For a horrible moment he thought he must have misunderstood her before and that they weren't actually supposed to eat the food, then realized that she was, in fact, indicating the uneaten food beside him. Oh. He nodded towards it, then jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. "For Michel."

She frowned and shook her head.  "He can eat later.  Later.  That's for you.  Eat it, you big clod."

He shook his head, more out of incomprehension than outright refusal.

"Yes!  Eat."  She put her hand to her mouth to demonstrate.  "The other man can eat later.  You - eat - now."

The old woman, having returned from upstairs, came to investigate. She and the girl exchanged words and then the old woman began explaining to Paol (with many words and gestures) that the man upstairs was sleeping, and she would take him some food to eat later, but that he, Paol, and also Charcot, ought to eat what was given to them and be thankful for it.

"What's going on?" Charcot asked, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning.

Paol tried to concentrate on what the old woman was saying, as if that would help, but it was all a meaningless blur. Meaningless save for the fact that it was a reprimand, that much was clear, and that she seemed equally displeased at the prospect of him bringing food to Bright. He knew the Englishman could be a bastard, but Christ, it was only a little bread and cheese and it would have been eaten anyway.

"I'm not sure," he told Charcot, "I don't think they want us to bring any of the food to Michel."

"Oh."  Charcot had not even thought of bringing any of the food to Bright, such had been his own ravenous haste, and now he felt a bit guilty for it.  But he was still ravenous.  "Well I'm sure he can speak up for himself when he gets hungry, can't he?"  He could not imagine Bright starving in silence.

Fed up with their lack of understanding, the old woman left and returned with a basket - no need to waste breakable crockery.  She returned again with a slice of bread and a piece of cheese, which she demonstratively placed in the basket, and then pointed upstairs.  There.  Were they satisfied now?

Charcot had been straining to understand what she said.  He did not speak Spanish, but there were a few words close enough to French that he could sometimes guess at their meaning, but it was oddly disconcerting to hear it being spoken without being able to see the speaker.  Worse was when the speaker descended into wordless pantomime.

Paol watched her place the food in the basket, feeling like a proper idiot now. "M—Gracias," he said, though the word sounded more like strange French than Spanish the way he spoke it, and picked up piece of bread and cheese. The apple had made him realize just how hungry he was and only the unnerving gazes of the two women kept him from shoving the entire piece in his mouth at once.

With a nod, the old woman went away to the kitchen, taking the girl with her.  

"So it's all right now?" Charcot asked, wondering if he could continue eating with a clear conscience.

There was a muffled, but vaguely affirmative sound from Paol who had taken advantage of their departure to cram the rest of the bread in his mouth.

With a grin Charcot followed suit, quickly devouring the rest of his food.  By the time it was gone, the old woman had returned, this time carrying two small cups of coffee.  The girl followed her with a plate that she set in front of Kerjean.  On it were two slices of some sort of egg and potato cake.  

"Give one to him," she instructed.

Charcot sighed longingly.  "Are they drinking coffee?"  He could smell it and it made him long for home.

Paol smiled. "Put out your hand," he told him and leaning across, slid the small cup across the table until touched Charcot's fingertips.  "There's some more food too," he added, placing one of the wedges on the other plate.

Charcot exhaled in a sound something between a gasp and a sob, but he was smiling as he raised the hot cup to his nose.  It really was coffee, and it was for him.  If it was poisoned, he did not care.  He sipped it and sighed.

"It's coffee.  Did you get some?"  He held the cup out to Paol, offering to share.  Civility was returning now that he had a belly full - or half full - of breakfast.  "And there's more food?"

At the house's front door came a sudden, firm knock.

Everyone jumped at the sound, having finally settled into something like acceptance of the present situation.  After invoking one or two of the saints, the old woman finally went to the door and lifted the latch, peering out through a small opening.

A sharp-nosed man in a slightly ragged red coat and a dusty black shako - complete with a dented brass plate - peered back at her.

"I beg your pardon, Señora," he said in lilting Spanish. "But I am here about one of your guests."

"They've gone!" she answered mournfully.  "They went away with our army."

The officer lifted an eyebrow. "They?"

Paol had been standing near the kitchen door, trying to listen, but now he turned back to the table, reaching for Charcot's arm. "Upstairs. Now," he told him quietly. He could not tell who the visitor was, but he could only imagine two possibilities, neither of them good.

"The English soldiers," she answered.  "Are all the English soldiers leaving?"