5th August, evening - Casa Augustin

It was some hours after hearing the news of the French return that Charcot had a sudden realization.

"My letter!" he exclaimed. "Paol, Lieutenant Thibaudeau still has the letter to my family! I told them I was a prisoner. I don't want them to get that letter if we're going to be freed so soon. They'll be so upset!" He had planned that the letter would be his last goodbye to his family without saying as much, and it had been meant to prepare them for the later news of his death. It had not yet occurred to him that he was relinquishing his desire for death, but as it was, he no longer wanted to send his family that particular farewell.

Paol opened his eyes. "Huh? Oh." He frowned as if processing the explanation only with difficulty. "So... you need it back?"

"Yeah, I don't want him to send it and for them to get all worried.  About me being a prisoner I mean."  Plenty of time for them to worry about him being blind later.  He could write them another letter as soon as he was reunited with the army.  And maybe - "Paol!  Do you think the army will send me home?"  He felt on the floor for his boots.  "They'll have to send me home.  Were you sleeping?  Sorry!  Come and get in my bed.  I'll get that girl to take me over, or something. You should be sleeping in the bed."

"I....Uh." Bed. Sleep... He shook his head. "No, no, I'll go. No sense dragging her into it."

"You sure? Damn, I'm sorry. You're still feverish!"

His mouth quirked in a faint half smile. "A little walk ain't gonna kill me. 'Sides, I can't sleep." Pushing to his feet, he paused, his hand on the door. There was a very good chance the carpenter would not admit him. But there was no harm asking, he supposed. Not much at least. "Shouldn't be long."

He closed the door quietly behind him and made his way down the stairs, suddenly very conscious of trying to move softly, but at the same time make enough noise to alert anyone to his presence. More than ever now he felt an intruder in the house.

Manuela was just coming in with her basket of washing. The clothes were still damp - she had not yet mastered the art of timing her chores to the daylight - but she would hang them in the kitchen to finish drying overnight. She looked up as she heard the Frenchman approaching, but her eyes were red from crying and she was ashamed to meet his eye.

"Manuela?" he asked, his errand temporarily forgotten in sudden concern, "What--" But that was a stupid question. If the French were coming back, she had every reason to cry. They'd been so close to peace with all the armies leaving and now that was about to be snatched away again. "I--I'm sorry. I wish--I mean, if there's...." He trailed off. How could he possibly help when he was part of the problem?

He was trying to show concern, she could tell. He was probably asking her what was wrong. "I'm scared," she admitted, glancing up at him for a moment. "All the soldiers."

Soldiers. He recognized that word and before he could think better of it, he blurted out, "I won't let them hurt you."

She was not entirely sure what he was saying, but it was meant to be reassuring. He probably thought his fellow French soldiers would be harmless and disciplined. She looked at him doubtfully. "There are bad men. Some of them are bad men, dangerous. And we're just two women in this house!"

"I know." He knew perhaps better even than she did. He swallowed, then haltingly tried again. "I..ah, protect? I would protect you?"

He knew? Was he saying he knew they were dangerous, his own fellow soldiers? She shivered involuntarily, even though the evening was warm. But "protect" was a word she recognized. "You'll protect us?" She looked at him with tentative hope mixed with a large portion of doubt. Maybe he meant it now, but when the time came, and in the heat of the moment, and with his fellow soldiers all around, besieging the house... She began to cry again and set the laundry basket down to find a handkerchief.

He dropped to his knees and reached across the basket. "Manuela--" He wanted to hold her, like he might have held Mathilde, to reassure her, but he hesitated at the last moment and had to nerve himself to rest his hand lightly on her arm. "It's alright. It'll be alright. I mean it, I'll protect you."

She looked at him, his earnest, serious, scarred but kind face, and she knew she could trust him to keep his word. It did not even occur to her to ask what he would want in return, because he was not like Maria's French officer. She was still frightened, but it felt as if some of the weight had been lifted.

"Thank you," she said quietly, still embarrassed. She found a handkerchief at last and realized it was the same one she had offered him earlier with the fruit stains. "Cherries," she laughed lightly, showing it to him before using it to wipe her eyes. Anything to change the subject and move past the fact that she was crying like a little girl in front of a guest. Or a prisoner, or whatever he was. "Do you feel better? Your fever?"

She seemed to believe him. She even laughed a little. He wasn't sure what that meant, if it was relief, or nerves, or just covering up, but she seemed a bit better and he was terribly glad of that. "Cerezas," he repeated with a tentative smile. Handkerchief.

But she was asking about his fever now. Was it better? "Me-mejor?" He hesitated, wondering if he should lie, then shook his head. "Soon, though," he added quickly. "It will be better -- mejor -- soon."

And then it was his turn to change the subject. "I was just... Dominic wants his letter back. From the officer. He's afraid his family will worry. I have to go ask him for it, talk to the officer."

She listened and nodded. She already knew that Dominic had gotten the officer to write a letter for him to his family. But then he stopped, as if he had finished what he needed to say. She frowned. "What?" Why was he telling her about the letter again?

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression mildly bemused. How could he explain it? "I need to talk to the officer again," he tried, "For Dominic. I go now?"

Again? "Ohhh, you want to go and see the officer again?" She glanced down the passage to see if her aunt might be coming around the corner. "Come with me, I'll take you. It's probably better if I tell Don Augustin. Come on, quick."

What? Bewildered, he got to his feet, and hurried after her into the courtyard. She made straight for Martita's house. So she had understood. Despite his initial reluctance to involve her, he was glad she was coming, as much for the simple fact of her presence as for her ability to explain his errand to the carpenter.

He dropped back a pace behind her as they reached the door. "Thank you for this," he said quietly.

Manuela smiled and shrugged, still feeling a little embarrassed. "It's nothing." She knocked on the door, and this time it was the carpenter who answered.  He frowned when he saw that she was accompanied by one of the French prisoners, but she gave him a quick explanation, and the man seemed to begrudgingly accept it.  He opened the door and she asked him a question, to which he nodded.

"I told him that you want to see the officer again about a letter.  I have to get back to my work now, but you can go with Don Augustin."  She stepped away from the door and pointed for Paol to follow the carpenter.

She was leaving? He nodded quickly, hoping his uncertainty did not show on his face. "Gracias," he said again, then turned back to the carpenter -- Augustin, was that the name she had used? – and followed him inside.

*

Hearing Manuela's voice, Maria Dolores looked up from her mending – Martita had torn her dress climbing in the fig tree, again. She listened a moment, then set the little dress on the table and got to her feet, slipping out into the hallway.

She drew back almost immediately. It was one of the French soldiers, not Manuela approaching with her father. "Where is Manuela? What does he want?" she asked her father, backing away. The prisoner looked up at her voice, but dropped his gaze almost immediately. It was one of the men from yesterday, the tall one with the bandaged arm and the tired circles around his eyes.

Something collided with the back of her legs and she looked down to see Martita peeking out from behind her skirt.

"He's just coming to ask Señor Tibodo to write him a letter. He won't bother you. Manuela brought him over but she didn't stay. Come on, Frenchman." The carpenter probably would have used some disparaging epithets on the soldier had not his daughters been listening.

Paol followed wordlessly after the carpenter, risking a glance at Martita, but she was glaring at him suspiciously. Up the stairs and down the hall to the door where he'd waited earlier that day. He knocked. "Lieutenant Thibaudeau, sir?"

The lieutenant looked up, his face full of eager hopefulness at the sound of a French voice. But it was just another prisoner, one from earlier that day, not someone from the liberating army.

"Oh it's you again, Soldat... Rejean? Come in, and close the door."