What has already been told:
It is historical fiction set in 1804. The French army is bivouaced in Flanders for two years, waiting for the opportunity to invade Britain. At this point, the reader would have been introduced to Marechal-des-Logis (a senior Sgt in the cavalry) Henri Darlon of the 1me Hussars who is a dashing rascal of a Hussar. In the chapter previously he fought a vicious duel with a man from his regiment. This chapter is the first introduction to the ladies in Madam Delattre's shop.
What will later be told:
The intention is that this is a Jane Austen style society tale told from the perspective of the scoundrel, wrapped in an adventure tale. Henri will fall in love with Jeanne and she with he, but he will eventually be obliged to discard her because she is neither pretty nor fashionable enough for the image that he needs to project as a senior Hussar. He will have to deal with the issue that she would be embarrassing to fight a duel over. Jeanne, unrevealed in this scene, has a club foot.
HONOUR & OUTRAGE
CHAPTER V
The VI Corps’ camps were spread all over the southern flank of the Army of the Coast but central to them all was the small town of Montreuil. Once a quiet community of farmers, fishermen, and entrepreneurs, the presence of thirty thousand soldiers over the past two years had enforced change upon it. Normally such an imposition would have brought devastation and ruin to the local inhabitants but this army came with more than just promissory notes and thieves: it brought money. As well, it was as ordered and regimented an army as ever assembled. That is not to say that Montreuil did not have some sufferings as their food supplies were decidedly thinned and the large amounts of cultivatable fields that were taken up by the settling armies exasperated this, even though all battalions and squadrons were responsible for cultivating their own vegetable gardens. Sufferings though are oft lessened by the presence of opportunity and it can well be imagined how enterprising merchants made good money off this explosion of customers.
On the same afternoon as his duel with Marechal-des-Logis Oldermann, Henri Darlon made opportunity to go down to the town. Montreuil wore the salted atmosphere of impatience. Its whitewashed homes were unsettled amid the wheat-hued fields like there was a detached and pointed cleanliness amid a land that was otherwise entirely focussed on dirt. As the river Canche slowly eased its way past the fishing wharfs, the buildings seemed to want to float away with it, despite the centuries old bastion walls that strived to contain them. Even the boats, especially the newly assembled fleet of barges for the impending invasion, anxiously pointed themselves north toward the sea.
Henri’s own impatience obligated him to be turned away from excessively long queues at his preferred (and therefore habitual) tailor shops until he found himself well off the main Rue de Paris.
Henri took up position as the last in a short queue off the Rue D’Orleans. Here the wait was reasonable enough so that he amused himself with banter and soldierly jests with those likewise detained. Two artillerymen and a dragoon looked back at him more idly than curiously but he gave his fine moustache a twirl and celebrated the attention with a smug grin.
“We’re keeping the fine ladies well employed today.” He made small talk.
“Indeed”, smirked a gunner but had not the wit to add more so Henri finished it with, “I hope that you will not have not worn them out with exertions of tending to your needs ere I ever get my opportunity to employ their hands.”
Now, every competent soldier is proficient with needle and thread but their handiwork would be noticeable so the congregation of soldiers outside of Madam Delattre’s tailor shop consisted of a mix of very recent recruits who still possessed money from home and those who thought it worth the expense to look good. Henri, of course, was in the latter camp. Certainly, a soldier should take pride in his uniform and it is especially true that one in his position had to look smarter still for he would be inspecting his juniors and they, informally, would ever be inspecting him. Soldiers delight in finding hypocrisy in their superiors as it allows them to feel unfairly oppressed. When they find a superior that is professional, sharply turned out, and competent in all things they are obliged to have respect and the corollary of that, much to their dismay, is that they must instead find fault in their own bearing and attitude. That is the first turning point in every recruit’s experience: when they begin to recognize the need to improve themselves rather than find fault in others.
At one point, an unfortunate Lieutenant of the Infantry emerged from the narrow-fronted shop and Henri, due more perhaps to boredom than petulance, decided to make sport of the poorly turned out officer. Where a salute was expected but not demanded, Henri surrendered nothing and just as the superior was on the point of embarrassingly pointing out the slight, Henri interjected as familial and warm a greeting as he could.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. How fares the glorious 6th Light Infantry today? Looking smart, as usual, I trust?”
Self-consciously, the officer fingered his telltale buttons, and began to mentally consider his uniform from boot to bicorn. Was this Marechal-des-Logis remarking upon some fault in his appearance? He took a gamble.
“Very much so…” and then increased his wager with a quip, saying “…or at least they were when I left them at lunch time. Who knows how they have degraded since then.”
Of the forced laughter that issued from the waiting men, only Henri’s sounded at all genuine. Indeed, a green-coated dragoon took this bit of awkwardness as an opportunity to sidle past the light infantryman to make his own entrance into the establishment.
How could that young officer hope to effectively scold the good-natured friendliness of the sky-blue Hussar? More discomforting, the veteran cavalryman made so bold as to throw a brotherly arm about the shoulders of his new friend. Complicit, all the soldiers there witnessing the diminution of the officer restrained themselves from any telling guffaws. They all played it well. Still, sensing that he was the butt of some joke, the Officer adjusted the angle of his headpiece, and stormed off down the street. The Lieutenant wandered on his way entirely confused as to what had happened. A part of him was certain that he had been insulted but he was unable to precisely find the fault. The laughter that finally followed him down the street confirmed his sentiment but left him no recourse. He would return to his regiment’s camp with a litany of abuse to level at the First Hussars now and that thought put another narrow smile under Henri Darlon’s whiskers.
When finally the last customer was last allowed entrance to Madam Delattre’s shop, the Hussar’s merliton cap was under one arm with the sundered black fur-lined pelisse in hand. His other hand remained free for adopting such swaggering poses as might be required. He made a point of entering with such a boisterous yet controlled affectation of manliness that the all four of the seamstresses immediately regarded him, each with their own particular perception.
“Ladies!”
Marguerite Cazin assessed the man with the benefit of experience. She saw the play-acting and though she did not know the man, she knew the manner. There was appreciation though for it was, initially at least, as fine a performance of peacock strutting as she had seen in some time and she did award it a sly smile. Certainly, her husband never undertook such an effort to impress his masculinity upon her, only his sex. Her pretty sister, Adele, was blessed with youth yet not troubled by innocence. The girl’s sightline danced from the eyes and teeth of the Hussar to his leather-lined trousers. She sought for no flaws and so found none. Adele paused long from her threading task and allowed her imagination full flight. A score of virile men might have entered the shop that day but none with such élan. In her mind, she was already making plans to reschedule a rendezvous with a certain officer of the light infantry.
Plainer and slightly less young, Jeanne Delattre was also less fanciful in her assessment of the qualities of this Hussar. She had seen this sort of buffoon too many times to be flattered or even amused by his pantomime. Yes, the show warranted a look up from her labours and she did, she would have acknowledged, linger overlong in studying his particularly blue eyes, but no aspect of her was threatening to swoon. This was merely another man destined to dance Adele to distraction.
Jeanne’s widowed mother, the proprietress, turned her attention to the man’s badges of rank and the cut of his costume. Since the revolution, not all officers were going to be men of wealth and not all of the rank and file were automatically beneath consideration. “Catch the Sun as it rises,” she would oft tell Jeanne. His clothing and how he wears it is the best mark a man of merit. This Hussar had such a mark. One glance informed any viewer that Henri Darlon was a man of both confidence and capability. Those were the men who became good husbands now. It never entered Madam Delattre’s mind that this fellow might try to seduce her daughter. Men did not try such things and when they did, Jeanne invariably dismissed them. No, if Madam eventually determined that this fellow was worthy, it would need to be arranged. She was a long way from that at this point though, was Madam. Thus far, she had only determined that this was a man worthy of further discovery.
“Sir,” said Adele with a pleasing tone as she set down her project. “I can aid you here. Come. Sit.”
Henri stepped down from his pose and instantly his manner was casual and comfortable. None of the women questioned Adele’s right of possession but Marguerite would not be denied an opportunity to enjoy herself. “Oh no, sister, do you not see that he is a Hussar. A Hussar never sits unless it is upon a horse.” The smile that she displayed for the benefit of the customer was broad. Taking advantage of his free hand, Henri wagged a firm finger at the young wife. He played with the lie, saying, “If positively pressed, I am told, some of the older Hussars will concede to seat themselves in the lap of a beautiful lady as well.”
“If positively pressed” echoed Marguerite merrily.
Adele perked up and asked brazenly, “Are you so weary that you might like to so sit with me, master Hussar?” This finally earned her an unpleased look from both Jeanne and her mother. While putting away a bolt of Indigo felt, Madam Delattre reminded Adele that she had other tasks to first perform.
“Madam Cazin may see to the Marechal-des-Logis” she directed but Madam Cazin voiced a faint protest, preferring, “Marguerite”.
With a hand across his breast, Henri stood before Marguerite’s low worktable and pledged that “I am afflicted such that I will never remember your names, my dear seamstresses, my darling ladies…” and after pausing to allow each of the women to demonstrate a look of faltering faith, he added, “…but ever will your elegant faces be embroidered into my memory”. Adele cooed, Marguerite mused, Madam Delattre bit her lip and Jeanne muttered something unheard into the Dragoon’s green tunic that was occupying her attention.
Marguerite turned her gaze to Henri’s carried possessions and pointed a slender finger. “Has your uniform an affliction that we might try to heal?” The soldier showed the slashed jacket.
“It did not bleed but the wound was deep. I pray that it is not fatal.”
“It is a fine pelisse” adjudged Madam Delattre. “The braiding is more expensive than the norm. You have had it custom made.”
Henri shrugged then and almost betrayed a blush before pulling out what was a stock answer to such questions of his vanity. “One must dress their best for the day of their death.”
“And every day in between?” quizzed Marguerite as she studied the torn garment.
Adele interrupted before the man could answer and said, “He had to look his best to come and see you, Marguerite. Surely you are pleased by his attentions”. That trap was plain for all to see and though Henri could have rescued Marguerite from potential embarrassment, he suspected already that the older sister was quite capable of besting the younger.
“Behave” commanded the proprietress. Marguerite made a point of looking the Hussar up and down appraisingly while she put her answer together.
“Oh, but I am flattered… flattered that one who lavished such care upon his uniform would come to me, the lowliest seamstress in all of Montreuil, to do what she might to ease the sufferings of his jacket. It makes me proud and honoured.”
Adele did not like the answer. No, such false flattery reflected back on the Hussar would ruin the whole game. Marguerite had gone too far. Shaking her head, the youngest sister looked to her labours and deemed the spirit of play defeated. Madam Delattre also determined that the disturbance had abated and, smiling to herself, she trundled to the room in the back on some errand. The Hussar though did not blanch in the face of this revelation. He did not retire from the counterattack. Instead, he continued as he commenced to pace about the small, cluttered shop.
“Lowliest seamstress? Say instead ‘the greatest seamstress in all of France’!” he said and rose up in releve to take a sweeping turn. “Turn aside from truth if you must, but embrace a greater reality. Do not chase dreams. Live them!” and then he lowered himself to look too earnestly into Adele’s eyes and spoke sotto voce, “No Cowardice!”
Adele swallowed hard while her sister hid her smile behind a suddenly demure hand.
Jeanne then spoke up to challenge the stranger, “Do you mock dreams, Marechal-des-Logis?”
The man spun upon a heel to face his accuser. He wore an effusively pained visage and was on the point of launching into some witty hyprbole when he stopped short. Something in the eye of this unadorned young girl had cold-sobered the gay cavalier. Henri halted, wordless. Marguerite's brows arched. Adele's furrowed.
Jeanne did not hold her ground. She had asked a question that was somehow unfair. Shaking her head as she averted her gaze, the young seamstress murmured an apology to the soldier. Henri though was disinclined to accept this.
Dropping to a single knee, Henri knelt before Jeanne's cluttered worktable. He braced himself with a hand on the desk and looked up into Jeanne's downcast face.
"Never. It is for dreams that I fight."
If Henri were being forthright, Adele refuted it. "He proposes to Jeanne? Take it, Jeanne. You may never get another... a better." This outburst was not so malicious as it might seem. The two girls were of similar ages and had been friends for all of their lives. Teasing was a regular part of their relationship. That does not mean that the truth of the taunt did not sting Jeanne but nor could she be too upset for she might have made the same jest herself about herself. As well, they both knew that the joke would not embarrass the girl since she was never going to be inclined toward attraction for this soldier. Jeanne never gave time for soldiers. They were brutal and stupid, or so she said. The only good thing about a soldier is that he is likely to be called to war.
Jeanne did dream, of course, and she dreamt of a man for herself. She could never put voice to what she imagined though for what was a quality one day would become a vice on the next. Perhaps part of what crippled Jeanne’s dreams was her homely features. What good is a dream that could never be realized? Should the blind dream of sight, the doomed of life? Yes, she could dream of a man loving her for her self and so caring for her and holding her in a warm embrace on a romantically moonlit night but never could she put any sort of face one her hero and worse, she could not conjure an honest smile upon his lips nor a real kiss upon her own.
This Hussar was not going to let the barb linger or even strike home. Quick as a flash, he was back on his feet and gesturing broadly to reassert his command of the floor.
“I propose instead to each of you, to every woman here, the following: for some… several centimes…say six centimes… a service shall be bestowed such that you would sew…”
“Should sew …” suggested the sharper sibling, getting into the spirit if the game.
Henri winked his approval and inserted the change. “Should sew the seam that was so severely …”
“Severed” Marguerite injected with confidence.
“Split” insisted Adele.
“…so severely shorn on my …”
“Soldier’s chemise” exclaimed Adele, fairly bouncing in her seat.
“Chemise of a pelisse!” rhymed her sister with a laugh.
“Shirt” was another try from Adele. Jeanne was mute.
Henri though decided firmly upon “…my soldier’s blue sackcloth” and the consensus was disappointment.
Marguerite smirked a moment later and spoke up saucily, saying, “Surely sir, we shall do … sew as you suggest”.
The whole of the room laughed merrily, even Madam Delattre who had watched it from the doorway. Even Jeanne.
Leaning over Marguerite’s shoulder to watch her inspect the subject Pelisse, Henri asked, “Can it be repaired?”
She nodded. “You could have it tomorrow.”
“I’d want it tonight.”
The girls all looked to Madam Delattre. Would she command them to stay late? The widow made an assessment. “No, you can have it tomorrow, Marechal-des-Logis. It is past closing.”
Perhaps too slyly, Adele offered to stay and work on it. Her elder sister insisted on assisting. Jeanne too offered to lend her hands if needed. The work would go faster for three. Marguerite tried to explain how it was not so bad as it would require the three and Madam threw up her hands. “I’m going home,” she said. The Hussar took little time to celebrate his victory and made sure that the heroes of the battle were duly rewarded. He stopped Madam as she, shawled, was heading out the door, took her hands in his own, and gave her a dear kiss upon each cheek. She blushed, imagined possibilities and improprieties, but finally only acquiesced a smile. As soon as her fingertips were freed, she wagged one in the smiling soldier’s face and warned, “Do not distract them, Marechal-des-Logis, or they will never get it finished”. Then, as an afterthought, Madam Delattre cast a glance back to her daughter Jeanne but resisted giving any instructions to the girl beyond “Lock the door”. Madam remained and watched as Henri likewise gave each girl in turn a simple, similar kiss. Adele turned quickly hoping to seize something upon the lips but Henri laughing pulled away and scolded her with charming words. Madam Delattre paid particular attention to how Jeanne handled the advances but to her surprise, she accepted the affection neither coldly nor anyway but proper. Her blush was perfectly shaded as to demonstrate her demure yet unashamed nature. Marguerite looked up from her stitching to receive her blessing from behind and she laughed at the gift. As Henri pulled away, a soft hand about his neck pulled him back down to receive a brush of lips upon his own check. When it was done, the married woman inhaled deeply the lingering aroma of the Hussar’s sweet tobacco. The shopkeeper smiled, more to herself than any other, and went on home with a spring in her step.
Alone with the three young ladies, Henri behaved as a gentleman. They played further games and laughed, joked and flirted, and worked to repair his torn jacket.