5th August, evening - Casa Augustin

He stepped inside, pulling the door softly closed behind him. "Sorry to bother you, sir. It's just Charcot, he wrote—I mean, you wrote the letter for him sayin' he's a prisoner. But now with the army coming back... Well, he's just wondering if he can have the letter, sir. So his family don't worry. He's awful grateful, and all."

"Oh. Yes of course. It's there on that table with my letters. Let me see - yes, that one there. Michel Charcot, Amboise, yes?" He handed the letter to the soldier and his eyes lit up again. "What's the news? Have any of the army arrived in town yet?"

"Nothing yet, sir. Streets seem real quiet," he said with an awkward half shrug, then added, "Our lads can't be more'n a couple of days off, though."

"Yes, they must be close for the townspeople to have seen them. Perhaps they intend to come by night. Did you see that young girl Maria?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "Not the little one, Marthe, but her older sister. Is she about?"

By night? Christ. Maybe he could sleep downstairs that night...

"Yes, she's—" He began, his thoughts still back in Manuela's house, then broke off. Hell. He shouldn't have said that. " Yes," he finished without elaboration.

"Tell her to come up and see me. Or ask her father to send her up. She's always disappearing to the neighbor's, going on and on about the English officer they have there, and how pitiful and brave he is because he lost a leg. Ha! Who wants a one-legged English scarecrow when there are whole Frenchmen to be had?"

Paol shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think that's a good idea, sir."

The officer stared at him. "You don't think that's a good idea," he repeated. "Do you care to tell me why not?"

His pale face flushed and he glanced down at his boots. But this wasn't the usual drill. Everything was out of context. Thibaudeau's words no longer held the authority of a whole army, he was just another injured prisoner. At least for a few more days.

In a few more days, things would be very different, but his feverish, scattered thoughts were not reaching that far ahead. He was thinking about the look on the girl's face when the officer had called for her yesterday, about Manuela crying, about the helpless, sickening fear he'd been living with ever since they'd been captured, about all the times he'd hid behind his uniform and told himself there was nothing he could do.

He looked up. "She's scared."

Thibaudeau snorted.  "Scared?  She's just a silly girl, and I can't help that.  There's no reason for her to be scared of me."  Then he looked at him sharply with sudden suspicion.  "What do you care, anyway?  Maybe you have your own eye on her, eh?"

"What? No. I just—" Christ, what was he doing? He couldn't talk to an officer like this, prisoner or no. He needed to stop talking. He needed to— "You should leave her alone." The words came out in a stumbling rush. "She's got every reason to be scared, especially with our lot moving in."

"And that's precisely why she could use a protector like me. What business is it of yours anyway? Bring her up."

He stopped and listened eagerly, greedily, at the sound of a young woman's voice calling downstairs. But it was not Maria. It was Manuela.

Paol stopped as well, a refusal on his lips. He'd recognized Manuela's voice, then another, too low and soft to be Martita. He looked back at the lieutenant, but made no move to obey him. For all the good it would do -- the voices sounded to be drawing closer.

Now they could hear the carpenter's voice as well. "Have they had news? Open the door! What's going on out there?"

News? He felt an unpleasant twist of anxiety and hope. Could they be here already? He unlatched the door and stuck his head out.

The carpenter was approaching followed by the two girls. "What is happening? Señor? Manuela, is everything alright?"

"Maria!" the lieutenant called, catching sight of her in the hall. He spoke to her in Spanish. "Come and tell me the news!"

Maria Dolores stepped forward into the doorway, though not into the room, casting a wary glance at the tall soldier standing close by. Then she looked directly at the lieutenant. "Your army is not coming," she said, her manner grave, though not without a note of cold triumph. "It was a mistake. The French are not coming back."

"What?" he sputtered, switching to French.  "You little wench, you're lying."  He reached out to grab her, but she was much too far away.  "You can't fool me.  Get over here!  She's lying," he said to Kerjean.  "She says the army isn't coming, it was all a mistake."

"What?" He turned away from the officer, toward the girl, his eyes moving past her to Manuela. "Is it true? The French are not coming?" But he knew the answer the moment he saw her face.

She was happy, immensely relieved for the news, but whatever lingering smile that had been on her face disappeared when she met Paol's gaze. She had to look away for a moment while she nodded. She had not even thought of the consequences for him. Poor fellow. "Yes. No French," she said, a bit of sympathy in her little shrug.

"It's a lie!" Thibaudeau yelled. "Both of these little tarts are lying. The army's probably marching through the streets right now."

Paol rounded on Thibaudeau. "Shut up!" His heart was racing now, but he felt nothing so much as anger; a violent, frightening anger, like he'd felt when he'd snapped that man's neck, only this wasn't a fight and no one was in danger and nothing seemed to make any sense. "Don't you ever speak to them like that!"

Thibaudeau stared at the soldier in shock. It was as if the man had suddenly stumbled in from a completely different conversation. "What did you just say?" The lieutenant spoke in a deadly quiet voice, but it soon rose in volume with his anger. "What did you say to your superior officer? How dare you! If you were a gentleman I'd call you out!"

Manuela had by now taken Maria's arm and pulled her away from the door, but events had taken such a surprising turn, and she was too startled and fascinated to leave the scene altogether. Maria's father stepped in front of them, waving his hands gently. "Don Tibodo, be calm. Both of you, calm yourselves."

"If you were a gentleman, you'd leave her the hell alone!" Paol shouted back.

*

Maria pressed close to her friend, her eyes wide with frightened curiosity. She had expected the news to make them angry, but not at each other.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of darting movement. "Martita, no!" But the little girl dodged easily away from her sister's grasp to stand in the doorway.

"Get out. Get out! Your officer will hear of this! Mark my word!" Enraged by his inability to do anything, Thibaudeau seized the earthenware cup from the table by his bed and hurled it at the soldier. It went wide and shattered against the doorway, narrowly missing the little girl standing there. "All of you, get out!"

There was a small, frightened shriek as the pottery exploded against the door frame. Martita? Paol turned, stricken – if Thibaudeau had hurt her... But there was no alarm in her older sister's face as she scooped her up, just startled maternal concern, and not a little anger.

He took an unsteady step back towards the door, feeling the anger drain away with debilitating swiftness. He had started a fight in another man's home. In front of his children. In front of Manuela. Martita had very nearly been hurt because of him. And God only knew how the lieutenant would take this out on them later. And he'd started a fight with an officer, broken the cardinal rule, the instinct which had been beaten into him since childhood.

He turned, reached the door, reached the hall. He didn't look at the others, he was barely aware of them as anything other than obstacles to be avoided. Everything seemed to narrow and the end of the hallway filled his vision. His heart was beating impossibly fast and he wanted to run. He needed to get out. Outside. Just get outside.