CHAPTER XV

The entrance of Heulot and Calot to the tailor shop was not grand. Even the chime of the tiny bell seemed contrary to their purposes or the air of these Brigadiers was entirely cavalier. Pausing within the entrance, the pale-uniformed men took in the details of the low-raftered room. They murmured and pointed, with arrogant ease, and with muted whispers confirmed the subjects of their reconnaissance.

From the four seamstresses, Madam Delattre was identified easily. If her age had not distinguished her, the woman's authoritarian awareness of the pair of Hussars certainly marked her. She instantly sensed artifice in their intentions yet, thus far, did nothing beyond keep one eye on the adventurers and the other upon her girls. Only one was her daughter but to the other two she was matronly if not motherly.

Calot first pointed out Jeanne. He recalled her face from their encounter outside the camp two nights before. That face was now less alarmed and more lit. The illumination, he mentally noted, did not amend his opinion on her lack of pretty features. There had briefly been a bright smile there, when the sky blue Hussars had entered the corners of her wide eyes but it vanished the instant that she failed to recognize Henri. Indeed, she fairly sighed and between her fingers, she rolled a short needle.

Adele worked a rag upon the windows to earn more sunlight for the room. Her slender form was a framed silhouette against the pane but her lithe nature and slight costume served, it seemed, as a landmark to know her by. Heulot pointed her out for the other and then turned his wrist to tap his own chest. Calot chuckled knowingly and looked to the last working woman.

Marguerite had also looked with expectation to the uniforms. She did not sigh to see who it was not but she set down her work and, with shoulders against the back of her chair, tilted her fair head to study the actions of these soldiers. By some agreement, the shorter of the two horsemen trotted toward Marguerite while Heulot sidled to Adele's side.

"Good afternoon, Madam" spoke Calot to the posed elder sister. "I am told that you are the finest seamstress in all of France."

Everyone suddenly looked to Calot but Marguerite simply laughed, "No sir. May I yet be of some service to you?"

By his pause and tone, it was quite clear that Calot was not giving the reply that he thought would be his wittiest. "My sleeve," he began and pointed with one arm to the other, "My Marechal-des-Logis has found fault with it." The tear join was quite apparent. "Exacting villain!" pronounced Marguerite with sympathetic outrage but she then indicated Heulot at the window where his flirtations with Adele had commenced agreeably. His uniform, as Marguerite was noting, was identically disfigured. "There seems to be an outbreak of some queer plague in your Company."

Calot might have misunderstood for he answered saying, "Oh, he isn't all that bad."

The banter continued in this fashion for a short while. Each soldier would eventually be sitting beside one of the sisters as she carefully stitched his torn shoulder seam. They negotiated a marginally extravagant wage for the work. A heavy knocking upon the door at the back of the shop suddenly altered the atmosphere. All looked toward it curiously but then attention centered upon Madam Delattre.

"Curious." she said for the benefit of others. She quickly assessed her resources and decided that she could not answer the summons herself. She remained suspicious of Hussars in general and these two schemers in particular. "Jeanne. See to that. We are expecting no deliveries."

Jeanne said nothing beyond "Yes, Mama." and hobbled through the storage room toward the back door where the knock once sounded but had not repeated. When she was withdrawn from the front shop, laughter reanimated the company that remained there.

Nobody stood at the back door. Nobody moved on the narrow back street. The buildings offered no answers, keeping their backs to her. Instantly perturbed, Jeanne's unfortunate foot aggravated her. Who would have so little patience, to knock and depart almost instantly? She stepped out and stretched her neck to scan for miscreants. There was Henri Darlon, leaning against the wall with as smug a grin as one can imagine and with a single upright finger touched to the center of his marvellously furled moustache. Jeanne was astonished. Her first instinct was to glance back over her shoulder to see if, through the storage room and connecting doorway, her mother could see her. She could not. She allowed herself a happy smile and focused that joyful expression on the Hussar.

Devilishly, Jeanne whispered, "What are you doing here?" but as soon as the question breathed across her lips, she knew what his answer would be. Henri was here for Marguerite. He would be expecting Jeanne to be his conspiratorial agent.

Henri reached for Jeanne's wrist, gripped it firmly, and pulled her to his breast with bold impropriety. Before she could mouth a word of protest, Jeanne felt the man's warm laugh roll over her startled expression and she was shackled then not by the clasping of her arm so much as his scent and his charm.

"I am captured." she said quietly but with delight. Still, her eyes were instantly scanning the streets to account any spectators. There were none, yet she stepped back toward decorum. The Hussar released his physical hold.

"Perhaps your cell will well accommodate you." Henri slid both hands behind his back before  getting the conversation on topic, saying, "I require a special costume made. It must be done secretly, expertly, and perfectly. I turn, therefore, to you." From behind, he now offered a rough sack.

It occured to Jeanne that he was not asking anything of Marguerite but she did not speak of that. "What is this?" she asked even as she took it to herself. It weighed less than she had anticipated. It required some fumblings briefly with the bindings but when she began to pull a dark cloth from within, Henri again touched his hand to hers to prevent the revelation. "Not here" he recommended.

"Why not? Why all this secrecy?"

Henri narrowed his eyes and scanned both ends of the empty alleyway. It was done for emphasis more than watchfulness. "There are spies about."

"English spies?" asked Jeanne. There was excitement upon her breath and she leaned in closer to Henri expectantly.

"Frenchmen. Informants. Rogues. Traitors. Men who would turn over good Frenchmen to our enemies for a purse of coins. They would betray a woman as easily."

Jeanne's shoulders tensed and she began to withdraw. "You have lured me here to participate in your intrigues. You have conspired to compromise me. What trick are you playing now."

"No trick," was the man's assuring response. His gesture offered to reclaim the mysterious sack but Jeanne clutched it more firmly in her tight hands. With a shrug and a smile, Henri tried to explain, saying "Luring you out here was part of it. There is a scheme but there was more. I took opportunity to see you… to speak to you. In fact, three objectives were achieved by our maneuvers."

With a sly grin, Jeanne recognized, "You have outflanked me."

The Hussar lifted a finger. "Exactly, but an outflank is only part of a battle plan." Here, both of his hands became animated as he described his vision. "You see, no outflank works without first engaging and pinning the front of the enemy. They have to be unable to turn to face new threats… new developments without employing their reserve."

"Your friends?"

"Yes, the Brigadiers were assigned to pin Adele and Marguerite."

"They took to the mission with élan, Marechal."

"I knew they would and had faith that Adele, at least, would not seek to break contact." He left that line of thought then for fear of becoming a gossip. "Once the main battle line is engaged, the flank forces are moved into position."

"You betrayed yourself with a knocking."

Henri twirled his moustache. "There is no point in surprising the foe with an outflank. Only when they see it coming can they commit their reserves."

"You want the reserves to fight you?" Jeanne seemed to be falling out of step.

"Why certainly" answered Henri with a wide welcoming gesture. "The role of the outflank is to pin the enemy reserve. I have pinned you, have I not? You are fully committed?"

Jeanne cocked her head and tucked her pupils into the corner of her eyes. A hand was raised to beg for time to consider and then her face widened with awareness. Leaning left, the girl peered through the open door, beyond the storeroom, and through to the store. There was her mother and there, so very close to her, was an officer from the Second Hussars. It was instantly apparent that Madam Delattre was enjoying herself. Jeanne could not prevent herself from giggling.

"The gentleman pursuing your mother, unless my plan has gone horribly awry, is Chef de Escadron Lambert. He is my Squadron Commander."

"You are matchmaking?"

"He is a good and capable gentleman, very much in need of a steadying influence. He has much promise."

"He is unattached?"

"He has never been married."

"You fancy yourself a matchmaker."

Henri's weight shifted. He looked up the unused street for some passerby who might be venturing too close but there was none to see. "Let me tell you what I need."

Jeanne half-frowned and leaned unsteadily to watch her mother through the passages. She steadied herself level before opening the bag to peer inside at the dark cloth contained there. The scent of the sea was pungent.

"Tell me," said Jeanne, "I hope that I can do it."