5th August, Afternoon visitation

"The French are coming back! They're crying it through the streets. I thought –" She broke off at the sound of the officer's entreaties, looking with sudden panic at her father. If the French were coming back, did that mean she would have to do what he asked? He was an officer; he would have soldiers to command again and could punish her family if she didn't.

*

Paol stared between them, the words flying back and forth too quickly for him to grasp, but something was clearly wrong, more than just their presence in the house. And then Thibaudeau called out and he saw the girl's face change, and without thinking, he let go of Charcot's arm, reached for the door and pulled it shut.

The officer shouted inside the room, but no one paid him any heed.

"The French are coming back?" Don Augustin exclaimed. "How soon will they be here? These are just the men quartered at Doña Castillo's house."

"Holy mother!" the old woman exclaimed, wringing her hands. "Does Doña Pollonia know?"

"I don't know. Soon. Very soon, I think. They—Yes, I was in her house when we heard the shouting. What will happen, Papa?"

"They're coming back?" demanded Martita. "But our soldiers will fight them off! We will beat you!" she told the two prisoners defiantly.

"Martita, hush!" her father commanded. "All will be well. If the French come back, then our own soldiers will come back too, and the English."

"It's all right for you!" Doña Castillo retorted. "You have a fine French officer who loves your daughter! He won't let anything happen to you! But at my house, it's only us poor women alone!"

Bewildered by the noisy exchange, Charcot pressed closer to Kerjean. "Paol, what's going on?" he asked quietly.

Martita made a disgusted sound and her sister blushed at the declaration, but her embarrassment quickly changed to concern as the old woman continued. "Then you and Manuela must stay with us," Maria Dolores insisted.

*

"I'm not sure yet," Paol replied his voice equally low. "Something's got them scared."

Hearing Manuela's name he looked up, but the girl, Maria avoided his gaze and he could glean nothing else from her face. Her cheeks were faintly pink and the heightened color only served to enhance her beauty; it was easy to see why Thibaudeau had become so enamored of her.

"And leave our house open to any thief that passes by? Never!"

"Calm yourself, Doña Castillo," the carpenter urged. "I will go and talk to Don Boothby. He will be sure to know what to do. If need be, we can put our valuables in Doña Pollonia's house. The vandals will surely leave alone a home housing a wounded English captain. For now, take your Frenchmen away. I don't want them discussing matters with Señor Tibodo." He gave the two soldiers a wary frown.

The old woman promptly waved her hands at Frenchmen, hurrying them down the hall towards the stairs. She wanted to get home as soon as possible to start hiding whatever valuables she had.

Taking Charcot's arm, Paol followed the old woman as she lead them out of the house. Other than occasionally alerting Charcot to a some obstacle or change in the terrain, he was silent, thinking. It took him until they were nearly across the courtyard to nerve himself to ask the question which had been nagging at him since Maria's arrival in the hallway. "Señora...?" he began hesitantly,  "Please. The French -- los Franceses, they are coming here? Los Franceses come to Talavera?"

"Coming here? Is that what they were talking about?" Charcot gasped. It couldn't be. It was too much to even dream of. He was afraid to even let his imagination think of it.

The old woman looked at them warily and then shrugged. "I don't know. Come inside."

Manuela looked out from the door, holding a cup. "I squeezed some orange juice. I didn't manage to get very much. What's wrong?" But her aunt hurried her inside as if the French army were about to invade the courtyard.

Paol bit back a curse. She wouldn't tell them. And why should she? He should never have asked in front of Charcot. "I don't know. Whatever it is that has them upset, it's something to do with the French. Here, we're back at the house."

He ducked beneath the lintel, pulling the door closed behind them before following after the two women. "Please, Señora," he persisted, "What's happening?"

She glanced at Manuela, clearly not wanting to alarm her. "I don't know," she repeated firmly with a shrug. She took the cup from her niece and handed it to him. "Drink this. It will make you feel better. And then you should go upstairs and sleep."

He didn't understand. She would not tell them what was happening, but she still offered them something to drink. Perhaps she was afraid of what they would do if they knew, but then why be kind to them at all? Or perhaps she was kind only out of fear.

Bewildered and defeated, he took the cup from her, took a tip. It tasted of oranges and made him think of that morning and Manuela. There was not much and he drained half in one swallow, then pressed the glass into Charcot's hand. "Here, it's juice."

"No, no, no, stupid Frenchman, it's for your fever!" the old woman snapped , pressing the cup back towards him. "For you because you're sick. Sick, fever, hot!"

No. No. If she'd only settled for calling him an idiot, but she kept going, spelling it out in painfully clear, simple words. For a moment he could only stare at her in consternation. What the hell did she care if he drank it or not? He was French and her enemy, and she should wish him dead and in pieces, so what the flaming hell did it matter how he got that way? And now she'd as good as told Charcot what Paol had been so desperate to keep from him.

He drained the cup, handed it back to her and took Charcot's arm. "C'mon," he said, heading for the stairs.

"Is she saying you're sick? That you have fever?" The words were similar enough to French that Charcot was able to grasp her meaning. "Did she give you some medicine? How long have you been sick Paol? I should have known." Charcot looked stricken with guilt and worry now. "Is she going to send for a surgeon? Señora, a surgeon? A doctor? A medical man?"

The old woman threw up her hands and muttered an unintelligible complaint. "Later, later!"

Manuela spoke to her aunt. "Are you going to put him in Pablito's room?"

"There's no point in dirtying the sheets if the French are coming back!" she exclaimed.

"What?" Manuela cried.

"No, you—No. I don't need a sawbones! It's just a fever. It's nothing. It'll be fine in a few days." He tried to pull Charcot toward the stairs again, but stopped at the cry from Manuela. He turned, looking anxiously between them. There was that phrase again. The old woman had just used it, the same words which had heralded such distress only minutes ago in the neighbor's house.

"They're coming back, the French?" he pressed, "They're coming back to Talavera, yes?"

"Yes!" she finally said in exasperation. She explained in rapid Spanish to her niece what she had heard at Don Augustin's house.

Yes. With that one word she tore down the sky and wrenched the ground out from under him as if they were little more than backdrops on a stage, and indeed they seemed now to be just that. "They're coming back..." he repeated dazedly, half to Charcot, half to himself.

Charcot didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Are they really? When? Señora, when are the French coming?"

She shrugged disgustedly, but then realized that he could not see. "I don't know, I don't know, all right? Go away upstairs!" She waved her hands at them and moved to comfort Manuela, who looked positively petrified.

"Let's go," said Paol quietly, steering Charcot to the stairs. He felt oddly numb -- or he had; the look on Manuela's face cut deeper than that and now the only thing he felt with any clarity was shame. The price of his deliverance was their peace and safety.  And yet it was now a possibility that the three prisoners would not be butchered by the Spanish, that Charcot would survive, get help, maybe even get well.

It was not that Paol had not failed; he had, repeatedly, but somehow, inconceivably there was now a chance they would be shielded from the consequences. He breathed out the half forgotten words of a prayer, words which were no longer recognizable as belonging to any language, but whose meaning was nonetheless unmistakeable.

"They're really coming back?" Charcot asked as Paol led him up the stairs. "When do you think they'll be here? How do they know they're coming? Did they see them?" He was sure that Paol must have superior knowledge on the subject. "I wonder who they saw. Maybe even the 86ème will be here. We have to tell Bright!"

"I don't know. I reckon someone saw something, but it might have been an advance guard or some'at. The rest of the army could be some days off still." The 86e? Christ... He hadn't even thought that far ahead. But that would mean--No. He deliberately pushed those thoughts away. He needed to keep his head clear of this; they weren't out of it yet.

Even so, it was an overwhelming relief to see Charcot suddenly hopeful. "Aye, we'll tell him," he agreed, a faint smile coloring his voice, "C'mon."