Revenant Eve (23 page)

“…NEUFCHATEL?”

“No. That’s where Jules will come looking if he finds himself a gang. Let us make for Yvetot. We can hear as much there.”

“Better, perhaps. We’ll move up the Seine. It’s bound to serve as a conduit for talk as well.”

Aurélie’s eyes popped open to the sounds of the men’s soft voices. The light was weak, watery blue. She turned her head. Mord sat cross-legged on the floorboards, scraping the beard from his sharp chin with his knife. He looked romantically dangerous, with his startlingly pale skin, his long dark hair loose on his shoulders, and a baldric across his chest for the cavalry sabre.

When he noticed Aurélie, he said, “Awake?” He held out the powder horn. “You may use some of ours if you are not planning to rob us.”

Aurélie’s voice, which was normally husky, sounded even more hoarse. “I am not.”

“Well, then.”

Jaska pulled out his knife, but instead of attending to the stubble on his chin, which, like his hair, was the color of cookie dough, he pulled out his unfinished reed to work on. Aurélie loaded her pistol.

Though both guys kept their hands busy, I got the feeling they were watching obliquely, and I think Aurélie was aware of that covert scrutiny,
too. Her cheeks showed dull red as she quickly loaded her pistol, then looked about. A broken leather strap hung from a beam overhead, probably once attached to a cow’s halter to keep her still for milking. She took aim and shot.

The strap gyrated wildly, and when it slowed, a hole was visible along one edge.

“That pistol throws right,” Mord observed.

“Yes. And I pulled too far left for balance,” Aurélie said as she placed the hot pistol inside her mashed hat.

“Nonetheless, a fine shot. I believe I have an extra cross belt somewhere here.” Mord dug through his shapeless haversack. Out came a shirt even dirtier than the one he was wearing, another capped powder horn, a clinking bag of pistol balls, a second knife, and then a rolled item that turned out to be the cross belt. “Observe! Frogged for the pistol.” He pointed out the loops.

Aurélie wrestled her way into the thing, which was ridiculously large. The pistol hung down to her thigh. She yanked on the buckles until she got the belt fitting more or less across her front. James’s overlarge shirt and waistcoat thoroughly smothered her contours, rendering her shape indistinguishable.

Mord had expertly rolled the greatcoat he’d slept under and affixed it to the back of his cross belt in the efficient manner of European soldiers. Below that went the haversack. “We are about to depart, Citizen René,” he said as he checked his pistol a last time, then slung it into the side frogs. “You can either come along or stay here and sleep. You may keep the regal.” He pointed at where it lay. “But I suggest leaving the area, as Jules will be seeking retribution as well as our earnings.”

Aurélie sat up and swallowed painfully. It was clear from her wince that she had a pounding headache, but she said, “I am ready.”

She hefted the regal, her feet planted wide. I couldn’t tell how heavy it was, but anyone who has ever carried a heavy backpack knows that a long hike under a lot of weight can get pretty grim.

Before she could wrestle it over her skinny shoulders, Jaska nipped
it from her fingers and slung it over his own back, then pulled on his own cross belt, all without speaking.

Mord had a
sabretache
—a pouch, usually part of a cavalryman’s uniform—connected to his cross belt, the front defaced by fire, the edges of what had been a regimental coat of arms, blackened. He slung the cavalry sword from the dangling slings.

Mord picked up his violin case and followed Jaska around to the back wall of the barn, free fingers working the front flaps of their trousers. Aurélie’s steps faltered when she realized what they were doing. She backtracked hastily and scooted across the barnyard to the scruffy hedgerow, where she could hastily relieve herself without any witnesses. When she was done, she scampered out to meet the two on the road, twitching her clothing straight.

They didn’t give her a second glance as they set out at a brisk pace under clearing skies, splashing along the muddy, rutted road. Jaska still walked with a limp, using the stick to balance against a stiff knee.

Time blurred. When I jolted into awareness, I discovered Aurélie lagging behind at a painful shuffle, the mud in the lane sucking at her shoes. Every step made her wince. Those past few days, she’d mostly spent lurking and hiding; she hadn’t had to walk all that far in James’s shoes.

When Mord and Jaska stopped at a well in a deserted circle of burnt-out farmhouses, she sat down on a fence stump and pulled off the shoes, her breath hissing between her teeth. Mord worked at the well as Jaska went off exploring.

The shoes had rubbed blisters into her ankles right through the stockings. Her mouth tightened into a pale line as she stuffed the stockings into her pockets, and flung away the shoes as hard as she could. She made certain the edges of her breeches covered the necklace, applied handfuls of mud to her feet and ankles, then stepped carefully onto the muddy ground.

A few steps later Jaska limped into view, the shoes in either hand. “You steal these, René?” He shrugged, not waiting for her to answer. “A good soldier learns never to waste good footgear. These can be remade by a cobbler.”

Jaska’s French, unlike Mord’s, was educated, what the Parisian upper class would call pure. A few years ago, that accent could have won him a free trip to the guillotine—and probably still could, if he was a Royalist deserter. He seemed to remember that, for he looked around quickly with a frown. Though Fouché’s spies were nowhere to be seen, he thrust Aurélie’s shoes at her and walked back to the lane.

She silently took the shoes and off they set.

Occasionally she winced at rocks, but the lane was muddy, which protected her feet somewhat. They made one more stop for water at a clear-running stream. Again, Aurélie availed herself of the bushes. “Oh, Duppy Kim, I am so very hungry,” she whispered when she was done, but said nothing to the guys when she rejoined them.

If they were testing her, they must have decided she’d passed, because midday found them in a tiny village, no more than a scanty circle of slant-roofed cottages around a tiny church. They entered a small, dilapidated inn. The woman who owned it scowled when two tall young men ducked under the doorway, but her expression changed to smiles when Mord held open a grimy hand, disclosing coinage.

Within a short time the three of them sat at a rough-hewn bench in the inn yard, facing a big plate of stale bread and
canard a l’orange
, with a lot more cabbage than duck. To wash it all down they had pear cider.

Aurélie sent occasional considering glances at her silent companions as they wolfed down their meal. When she was done, she surreptitiously slipped to the dog the bits of duck.

So far the guys had been decent enough, but they looked like a couple of rough articles. From the way they fought, my guess was deserters, or else their unit had been disbanded after the Peace of Amiens.

Mord drank the last of his cider, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and picked up his violin case. That was the signal to get moving again. They walked out of the tiny village down a lane, with spring growth on either side. Jaska presently dug a hand into his pocket—Aurélie’s head turned sharply, a flash of fear widening her eyes—but then her lips parted when his grimy fingers emerged with a jaw harp, and he began to play a tune with a quick, catchy melody.

The sky began clouding up midway through the afternoon. They wound their way up a hill. The wind strengthened, sending spurts of rain into their faces as they looked out over the land at farmers busy in the fields or climbing all over the thatched roofs of longhouses. The farmers worked in teams, beating the lifted thatching, stripping the roofs of winter moss, and repairing. Sheep and cows wandered meadows fuzzy with new growth.

I hoped the sight of those cows meant relative quiet, after all the trouble of the latter years of the Revolution. For the millionth time I wished I could have known that this was going to happen to me. I could have prepared. I had to rely on memory; I knew that the farther away you got from Paris, the less governmental control over the provinces.

Napoleon was just beginning to change all that, but so far, his reorganization was little in evidence.

“Here’s a sizable village,” Mord said as they spotted rooftops clustered around a central spire. “We will try to earn our meal, as these coins won’t last long. Citizen René, you were very useful yesterday. As long as you continue to attract the stray
centime
, why, you may stay with us, share and share alike. Is that fair?”

“Yes,” Aurélie said. Her fingers were stuck in her armpits to keep them warm.

Aurélie followed them as they tried first one inn, were turned away, then a tavern. The owner said, “Let’s hear you first, citizens. If you draw custom, there will be a meal in it and anything you can earn. But if you turn away custom, I’ll throw you out into the road.” He flexed brawny arms roughly the size of beer casks.

Aurélie watched as the two set things up. They were fast from long habit. Several local urchins wandered in to watch, a couple of them holding rotten vegetables in hopes of fun. Mord pulled out his violin. “I have to tune it.”

He drew the bow across the strings, drawing a whining note that dwindled to a groan. A couple of smaller kids snickered. Then he made the violin mew like a cat, and bounced the bow over the strings like a yappy dog. More laughter, and a few more kids crowded in.

“Show us a horse,” someone said.

Mord’s bow drew out a fair enough whinny.

“A cow!”

That was easy. He drew the mournful note out, making them laugh, as the crowd grew bigger. His nimble fingers twitched the pegs until he got it tuned, then he sang a patter song about a series of revolutionary animals who called one another ‘citizen,’ but the song was clearly far older than the Revolution.

Jaska set up the regal for Aurélie, and included his twine-to-boot pump arrangement. He fitted a new reed into his hautbois, and on a nod from Mord, they swung into “Ça ira,” which drew more of an audience.

The hat remained barren of coins, but at least the rotten vegetables stayed in aprons and pockets. Then they launched into a Breton melody that I recognized from modern folk music, “Tri Martolod.”

Aurélie did not know it, but she picked up the main chords very fast, which permitted Mord to riff improvisation as a counterpoint to the melody played by Jaska.

They were joined by an old man’s thready voice, the words Breton. He was hastily drowned out by some young people singing a new set of verses in French, a revolutionary adaptation, as quick, defensive looks went round. When no one emerged from the woodwork to arrest the old man, a couple of teens took hands and danced around the benches and tables.

That prompted people to clear a space, and the trio went straight into a refrain. The audience began stamping and twirling and clapping, skirts flashing, faces red with effort, dust rising in the humid air. Aurélie played unerringly.

After a range of dancy folk tunes, Mord offered the Eastern European one that had first caught my attention. After that, Jaska answered with a Russian folk piece, and Mord countered with a Polish tune, then Aurélie plunged into one of her fae pieces, flushing with pride at the audience’s stamping and clapping.

The few coins they earned were all
centimes
with a few
decimes
—no
livres
, which were only about the equivalent of a dime or quarter. It was
plain from the patched clothing and their listeners’ lack of shoes that nobody had much money to give. The tavern keeper showed his approval by the generous meal waiting when at long last the evening drew to a close.

After they’d eaten, he said, “You can sleep in the cow byre. And if you are going to Yvetot, be sure to stop at my cousin’s inn…” He gave them directions.

As they went through the kitchen to the back, Mord looked less mournful than usual. Once they were in the byre, he said to Aurélie, “A recommendation, you will find, is sometimes better than gold coins. We’ll have a place to go in Yvetot, and we’re less likely to find trouble with the prefecture.”

Jaska found an empty bucket and turned it upside down. He reached into his haversack for last night’s candle stub. Aurélie had been yawning continuously. She swept together a pile of chaff to sleep on and curled up. The candlelight gleamed in her eyes as she watched Jaska pull from his pocket a small book.

The gilt lettering flashed briefly in the weak light,
La Monadologie
.

“Leibniz?” Aurélie asked sleepily, then closed her eyes. She didn’t see the surprised look Jaska sent her way, but I did, for my own surprise kept my focus ‘awake’ for a few moments, as I had not expected a scruffy bum of a deserter to be reading a German mathematician-philosopher from the previous century.

L
IGHT FLARED.
Noise. The tavern keeper appeared, a lantern swinging from one hand and in the other, a loaf of hot bread and a wedge of cheese that looked mouth-watering even to me, without a mouth.