6th August, morning - Par Ici Passe Un Cavalier

Paol sat at the top of the steps, his head resting against the wall. Below he could hear the two women bustling about. He'd managed to keep out of sight for the most part; he wasn't sure why that seemed important. But they would be leaving today and there was no point in making things any harder than they had to be. For him, at least; he doubted their departure would make much difference to any of the others. Better to leave things as they'd been last night. He'd said goodbye, even if he hadn't been able to say it in a way she could understand.

So he was hiding, he thought with weary disgust. And not just from them. He told himself he was sitting out in the hall because he was waiting for the surgeon, but he could have waited just as well in their little room. He shut his eyes and rubbed his hand across his face, fighting down the roiling surge of anxiety. If they could just make it through today...

Charcot had awakened feeling remarkably refreshed. It seemed to be the best sleep he had had in years. Sitting up and listening quietly, he could hear Bright's breathing - at least he assumed it was Bright - in the bed beside his own. He could not tell if Paol was asleep or not. Leaning over, he felt a crumple of paper in his waistcoat. There was something there - a folded paper with a lumpy seal. A letter. It must be his letter that Paol had fetched back from the lieutenant. Charcot had fallen asleep waiting for him to return, finally giving in to the exhaustion that had plagued him for so long.

If Paol were awake, he would have said something by now. Perhaps Charcot could step over him and go downstairs on his own. But feeling on the floor, he could not fight Paol anywhere. Of course, he must be awake already and downstairs himself. Charcot stepped carefully to the door and let himself out, then began feeling his way towards the stairs.

Paol tensed at the sound of the soft tread coming down the hall. He let out a slow breath, then drew it in again, looking up and over his shoulder. "Hey, mate," he said, forcing some measure of lightness into his voice.

"Oh, Paol!" Charcot stopped in his tracks, surprised but glad to have found his friend so easily. "Where are you? What are you doing out here in the hall? I was just going downstairs to see if they would give me something to eat."

"Oh. I... uh," He wavered, but his nerve failed and he pushed to his feet. "C'mon, then." Better Charcot got a decent meal in him first.

Charcot felt along the wall. "Don't let me fall down the stairs," he said with a little grin.

"Nah, you're alright. Here," he shifted to the other side of the stairs and took Charcot's arm. At the bottom of the stairs, he checked, peering into the kitchen. Bleary memories of the night before had left him with keen, stinging sense of embarrassment which only heightened his reluctance to show his face. "Buenos dias?"

Doña Castillo looked up from the coffee she was preparing. "Good morning. Oh, poor Frenchman. Still feverish? Let me feel." She had crossed the kitchen and was already putting her hands on either side of Paol's face.

Paol froze, a startled blush suffusing his cheeks. "Better, si. Mejor," he stammered, "Gracias." He was not so much better as simply not worse, but even that was an improvement over the past several days.

"What?" Charcot couldn't tell what was going on or what the old woman was saying, but she was obviously very close by. "Oh, she's talking to you. Oh your fever! I'm stupid, I forgot all about it, I was so caught up with... How are you feeling?"

Muttering to herself and ignoring their conversation, Doña Castillo pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and motioned for Paol to sit in it. Of course, he would want his blind friend to sit too, so she pushed another chair beside it.

"Oh. I, uh- - fine," he said, somewhat flustered by the question and the old woman's attentions, "Better than I was. Here, she's sayin' we should sit at the table." Grateful for something to do, however brief, he lead Charcot over to one of the chairs, then took a seat himself, only to stand a moment later.

"Can I help?" he asked the old woman, "Carry wood or water? Or anything?" Anything except sit and wait.

"Water?" she repeated. She poured a cup of water and set it on the table for him.

"Auntie, can you tie this for me? Oh hello." Manuela had burst into the kitchen wearing her Sunday dress, and she was surprised but no longer alarmed to discover French soldiers sitting at the table. She was going to greet Paol and ask how he was feeling, but she felt a bit reserved in front of her aunt. Instead she asked, "Where's the other one, the third French soldier?"

Thank you, he was about to say, but he turned sharply when Manuela entered the room; she looked different, though no less lovely for that. He opened his mouth, shut it again and blushed, but managed to point at the ceiling to indicate that Bright was still upstairs.

The old woman had cut an apple in half, and she set the two halves in front of the soldiers before moving to assist her niece.

"How is his fever, the tall one?" Manuela asked, looking at Paol while her aunt tied her ribbon.

"Still warm.  Maria told Doña Pollonia to send the doctor when he comes.  There.  Now where will we eat?  We must send these soldiers back upstairs."

"No, no, auntie, we can sit here.  See, there's plenty of room, and I don't mind!"  Manuela ignored her aunt's grumbling and fetched the plates to set the table, smiling discreetly at Paol as she placed one in front of him.  "How are you?  Still hot?"

An answering smile didn't quite reach his mouth as he watched her, and after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Si," he said quietly, "But sleep helped. Sleep... bueno?"

"What?" Charcot asked again, confused by the different conversations going on. The old woman had pushed the apple into his hand, and he was primarily focused on eating it. But then he stopped. The street outside, which had been fairly quiet since the departure of the Spanish soldiers, was growing animated again. And it didn't sound like ordinary townsfolk going to mass. "What's going on outside?"

There was a light rapping on the courtyard door and then the sound of young woman's voice. "Señora? Manuela?"

"It's Maria!" Manuela said, rushing to open the door for her friend.

"Manuela!" Maria cried, happy and anxious at the same time, "We could hear the noise from our house, but couldn't see anything. Do you know what is happening? I was afraid to go out in the street to look."

"No!  What is it?"  She rushed to the front of the house and looked out the window beside the door.

"What is it, Manuela?" her aunt called.

"I can't tell.  People are shouting at something down the street.  I see horses."  Then she caught sight of a flag.  "Holy mother!" she whispered, springing away from the window.

Maria caught her arm. "What is it?" she asked anxiously, peering herself out the window, only to draw back with equal suddenness, one hand clapped to her mouth, the other to her breast. "The demons!"

Taking her friend's arm again, she tried to draw her back into the kitchen, away from the window.

"What is it, Manuelita?" Doña Castillo asked again.

Manuela reappeared in the kitchen, her face pale. "The French."

Outside, the day was already getting quite warm, despite being early. The clamour and crowd made it seem even warmer. Chevenier could feel sweat already prickling beneath his uniform as he rode. Despite his discomfort, he smiled widely as he noticed a nearby elderly woman and offered a seated half-bow. She scowled and spat on the ground as they rode past. Chevenier stifled a sigh - he could hardly blame them for their reaction.

Paol's hand gripped the table. He had pushed to his feet the instant he saw Manuela's face, but now it was taking a deliberate effort not to collapse back into his chair. The French.

No. It had to be wrong. They just--They couldn't-- But there was no mistaking the fear in the two girls' faces.

Very quietly he said to Charcot, "Wait here a minute, mate." Then he started toward the door.

Charcot's face split into a grin. Had he been able to see the shocked faces of the women, he might have made more attempt to hide his jubilation, but as it was, his thoughts were nothing but joyful hope. "Paol, she said the French, didn't she! Go and look! Tell me what you see!"