HONOUR AND OUTRAGE

CHAPTER XII

Jeanne Delattre fouled her stitch terribly. Another might have sworn but Jeanne merely pursed her dry lips tighter. She must concentrate. It was such a simple mend and this drummer boy would not care if his trousers were not seamed as well as they could be. Still. She pulled her work out to begin anew but then set her tools down firmly on the cluttered tabletop.

"Mother." She began but then shook her head and rose, straightening her skirts as she did so. Nothing needed to be explained. Nothing could be explained. Madam Delattre watched her daughter clumsily stumble to the backroom and pursed her lips. Adele paid no heed whatsoever. The pair of troopers that watched her work amused her. Marguerite though sighed. Broadly alone, Jeanne cast about for a new tool until she secured a pencil and paper. Before she sat to write, she swung the door closed and a window open. This caused even Adele to glance to the commotion.

Quickly, Jeanne put the name of Marechal-des-Logis Henri Darlon on the top of the page. She then could only stare at the wall that stood between Marguerite and her. Composing was more difficult than she had imagined. She had once had the words. They had been running through her mind all afternoon. They had been weaving and binding their own knots through all the threads of her day. Those words now were ridiculous. They were emotional. They were indistinct or too distinct. Those words did not express the urgency of her interests. She had to be perfectly clear of her interests in this matter. There could be no confusion.

Marguerite Cazin…

Jeanne found room in the margin to add Madam to the name.

Madam Marguerite Cazin is a dear friend of mine. She is good and true such that I could wish her no unhappiness ever. No man of honour could wish harm to befall her.

Sitting back, Jeanne sighed. She would need to begin again. The chair was uncomfortable, the light quite poor.

Marguerite, almost singing, had found opportunity to admit that she had been seeing the Hussar in the evenings and now too in the nights. There was no more façade of working late. Jeanne could lie to Philippe, she believed. She had in the past though it was not for anything so scandalous. It would be a scandal. Monsieur Cazin was not a strong man and he was not a particularly good man. Marguerite never defended his failings. Adele delighted, naturally, in those faults and the seamstress shop had often rung with laughter at the husband's expense. This though, he did not deserve. No, Jeanne did not think she could lie to him now. She could not tell him either. Her face would betray her. Jeanne sighed again, reflecting on how her face had been betraying her through the whole of her life. Marguerite was pretty enough. Why should Jeanne care if that prettiness cost her from time to time? Such should be the cost of prettiness and impropriety. Despite the whirling storm of questions that danced in Jeanne's imagination, she resolutely refused to allow herself to ask what she might do were she in Marguerite's place. Would she spend a pretty face worth of happiness for a man such as Henri? She would not ask or answer that question.

Jeanne began the letter again and again. She had been too long. Someone would get suspicious. Suspicious? This was Jeanne Delattre. What could Jeanne ever do that would create suspicion in the mind of anyone that knew her? She was always only ever just Jeanne.

The girl had confidence that her cause was just. The affair had to be ended. It must, for the sake of Philippe at least, but Marguerite too. Could she not see to what misery she was consigning herself? It could never end in happiness. Henri... The Hussar could never love her. He will get what he wants, all that all men want, and then with a charming laugh he would move on to another. Marguerite could not keep him. She could barely keep Philippe and he is but a caged canary compared to the hawk of a Hussar. He has Marguerite in his talons and if he flew off with her... If Henri and Marguerite ran off together... He cannot. He is a soldier. Henri would not leave the army, the Empire, for a woman, for Marguerite. Fleetingly, Jeanne considered taking the matter to whoever commanded the Marechal-des-Logis. She knew though that she must get the letter directly to the man responsible. She could deliver it herself this very afternoon. It was the only way to be certain.

Hunching over her page, Jeanne finally found the will and words to allow her to fold closed the finished communique. It would need to suffice. The letter would petition to the seducer's honour and dignity. More though, it beseeched charity for a unfortunate woman. It was all she could do. No demands could be issued.

 The nervous girl regarded the folded note in her hands. They trembled slightly. Sealed? Scented? Ribboned? No. That was how Adele might do it, or Marguerite. There was another considering pause before Jeanne pushed herself to her feet. She donned her cloak and hood before poking her head through the door to the shop.

"I must go out. I'd forgotten" she lied, "Madam Dreville had asked me to dinner this evening". Cleverly, she added, "...with her son".

"Oh" answered her mother. "Not looking like that, surely. Surely you'll go home first and change. Fix yourself up and do something with your hair. Oh Jeanne, do clean yourself up first, please".

“Yes. I will.”

“Marguerite may have something you could wear.”

“I’ll find something, Mama. I must go.”

Off she went. On the Montreuil street though, Jeanne did not go home. There was no time, despite the proximity. There was no dinner party. She had to get to the garrison of the First Hussars before they were dismissed for the night. Henri Darlon must be intercepted before he got to town and before Marguerite could see them. It was true though. It could not be denied. Jeanne knew how common her dress was and how formless her haphazard hair. Her curls always did that. Some girls had elegant twists that could be managed into classical coiffures. Jeanne’s hair though was eternally determined to become misshapen at every opportunity. None of the girls wore make up anymore, though mother still said that they should. Maybe, Jeanne thought as she hobbled along, dragging her club foot down the cobblestone way, she should make an effort tonight. The Hussar would appreciate, perhaps deserve any such effort. She could never make herself beautiful but perhaps less homely, less plain. She’d be there before dark too.

It was not a long walk the village where the Second Squadron of the First Hussars was garrisoned; little more than three kilometers beyond the walls of Montreuil. She could maintain a marcher's pace despite her limp. It amused Jeanne to reflect upon how much she, and indeed all of the Montreuil citizens now knew about the army. Two years ago, before the army of the Invasion had encamped in the Boulogne area, the military had been a vague and somewhat malevolent force of the nation. Yes, everyone had family members or neighbours who had served. The annual recruiting lotteries were dreaded but anticipated with excitement. There had long been at least a company in garrison at Montreuil. France was a nation that had been vigorously at war for the previous ten years, afterall. But even so, this was something new.

Now, stretching far to the north and east, garrison camps were seen everywhere. You'd come across villages of seventy with two hundred soldiers now making semi-permanent homes  but a stone's throw away. Towns were billeting all manner of officers. Generals have moved in their families or mistresses. There was no escaping the military presence now. It was as though, Jeanne sometimes felt, she and everyone she knew had been enlisted into the army. Now they knew all the ranks, the regiments, and rules. All of them knew which company or squadron was bivouacked where and who all their notables were. The young boys would even track parade states and conduct their own rigorous inspections from afar. At first, townspeople and villagers would spectate the daily manoeuvres or parades but by this time they knew the drill themselves, it seemed.

The note could not be clenched as much as Jeanne's fingers wished. A good grip must be ensured; it must be pristine. Already she regretted the pencil work. The paper too was inappropriate. Both were practical yet ugly.

A trio of junior officers, artillerymen, passed her on their way to an evening of revelry. On any other day, on any other errand, Jeanne would have not been so pained by the snickering jests of these men. They mimicked her limp and one exaggerated it to a crooked hunchback. She was not that bad. Still, she despaired. That is what men saw her as, she knew. She could not allow herself to blame such men though for the lame must fall behind the herd. It is their lot to be left; it was better for all.

On though she lurched until arriving at the broad field that had been taken by the Hussars for their garrison. The farmer's compensation had been fair enough to satisfy the courts while not being sufficient to prevent his ruin. Not a soul might have predicted the duration of this encampment when it had been conceived. The forest beside the camp was noticeably thinned already.

There, before the white-painted stones that demarked the boundary of the camp, was a score of waiting women. Each alone, like floating ghosts haunting the paths of the living, these were the whores and hopefuls. They lurked there with some, like Jeanne, cloaked for concealment, while others wore masks of thick makeup and brazen dishabille.

Jeanne took her place among the host. Each was arrayed to be near the only beaten dirt road from the camp. They waited with the patience and hunger of vultures but no carrion feeders these; they sustained themselves from the vitality of those who lived.

The Squadron was not yet dismissed and so the women waited, cursing unknown issuers of orders. Men could be seen though, some of them, moving about within the camp and tending to various indiscernible duties. The horses seemed all settled for the day. That boded well at least.

Did Adele ever attend this vigil? Marguerite? Jeanne pulled her hood forward against the increasing chill.

Dusk did approach but none of the waiting women went. It was not patience that allowed Jeanne to also persist. As the hours passed her by, it was fresh, almost frantic  recitations of her opening words to Marechal-des-Logis Darlon that distracted her. They were not always fresh imaginings but were sometimes copies of elaborate possible conversations with subtle, perhaps ingenious variations. When haughty did not feel just right, perhaps the same words with desperation would. She understood the man enough to be certain to seek layers in everything he said.

Finally, a throng of Hussars made for the garrison exit. All retained their uniforms; but few retained their steeds. For the length of the journey it was not worth it to find stabling. If you really wanted to unwind with drink, you did not want the responsibility of a horse to rein you in. Certainly, a small number of the men had dressed themselves down, donning forage caps and abandoning other cumbersome accoutrements, but the bulk bore the impractical discomforts of full battle dress in deference to their vanity. Thusly uniformed, Jeanne was initially distressed to wonder how she might hope to discern her particular soldier from the press but soon was also overtaken by the notion that perhaps Henri Darlon was less of a unique individual as Marguerite and Jeanne might wish to imagine him to be.

The loose formation of women edged forward but skirmishers broke ranks from the Hussars to engage individuals. Some pairs hugged, others haggled. The remaining soldiers could proceed unmolested.

Jeanne though was becoming nervous. In this failing light, with this throng of identically dressed men, each moustached and with that same distinctive hairstyle, with all the large men gone to the heavy cavalry, how might she hope to discern her target. What, she feared, would happen if he had somehow gotten past her and was already in Marguerite's embrace? Perhaps he was not coming at all. He might be failing to meet his appointment. Jeanne imagined her friend's heartache. Maybe the rogue had grabbed the arm of some other lady that had waited without.

Henri's rich laugh heralded his approach like a clap of thunder. There he was, walking with that distinctive swagger that all the cavalry adopted but he had perfected. Jesting along with two Brigadiers at his side, he did stand out. His bearing was bold and his presence electric. As the party tossed witticisms forth and back, Henri's gaze must have passed over the cloaked figure of Jeanne but he registered no awareness. Doubt assaulted the girl. She had imagined him alone. She could not let this moment pass though. She acted.

It took only a few stuttering steps to close the distance and then Jeanne was there, boldly grasping the hand of Henri and thrusting her message into his warm, startled palm. He did not recoil nor did he lash out. One Brigadier quickly attempted to intervene. He laid tentative hands upon Jeanne’s shoulder but she yielded instantly, her hood falling off in the act.

“Hold yourselves off,” commanded Henri. He looked to the creased note in his hand but did not pause to read it. “Leave off. I know this woman.”

“Come, Calot,” said Heulot, “I think the Margis can find his way after us. He’ll be safe.” The second Brigadier laughed and he must have appraised the merits of Jeanne quickly for he smirked before the pair moved off.

Henri’s visage suggested kindness as he tried to read Jeanne’s expression. “What is it? Is something amiss?”

She shook her head insistently. “No. Nothing is wrong. I… I wish to speak with you.” The Hussar indicated the note but Jeanne gestured again in the negative. ”No. Can we speak perhaps?” Quickly looking about to remind herself of where she was, Jeanne noticed so many couples moving arm in arm toward the remaining forest. She imagined how Henri and she would appear to others then and she suggested, “Could we speak somewhere in private?”

Henri took her meaning. “We may speak here. As soon as we seek to be discreet, we admit to shame and thus invite gossip.”

“Would they gossip about me…about you?”

He laughed then and immediately Jeanne began to feel more at ease. “They may strut about like roosters,” he answered, “but soldiers also cluck about like hens. We have no imperative to conceal ourselves.”

“Please,” asked Jeanne, “ do not tell Marguerite that we communicated. She must not know.”

Certainly, this played upon Henri’s curiosity but it also struck another chord. He acquiesced. “Very well. We shall diminish our presence.” Taking Jeanne by the arm, Henri moved to escort her toward a lone oak that squatted not far from the main road. Try as she might, Jeanne could not disguise her broken gait. Though it was his first awareness of the girl’s impairment, Henri elected to say nothing on the subject. Still, the silence while they walked was heavy. A low stonewall cut across the field near to the broad tree. It was too near, being rudely disrupted and broken by the force of the growing oak roots. In a gentlemanly gesture, Henri offered a seat upon the remains of the stonework to Jeanne but she elected to remain afoot. Such a low wall, she thought, would hardly restrict a determined hare. She could have even leapt it. She spent a moment studying the ruptured wall, studying how the moss was growing on the grey slate fragments and trying to guess the age of the violence.

Henri folded close the written note. “You could have gone to the husband. It should be his place to challenge my right”

Jeanne was reminded of her mission and tried to quickly focus the conversation. “I am not challenging your right. I am expressing that it displeases me.”

He tilted his head to remove his mirliton headdress. “Dissuade me. Why should it displease you so? Am I unworthy? Has she complained of me?” Suddenly Jeanne snatched for the letter but Henri playfully would not give it up. There was a brief tug before the soldier surrendered it with a chortle. Jeanne did not rise to the gaiety.

 “Marguerite did not complain of you,” said Jeanne. She straightened her shoulders. “You are proficient in your seductions.”

Apparently, the Hussar would still not take the conversation seriously. “I bring joy to women! That should not be cause for unhappiness.”

“It brings no joy to me, Marechal-des-Logis, and I am a woman.”

“I could give you…” began Henri but suddenly he sobered and finished, “…non. Mademoiselle, I would not dare.”

He had expected a blush yet Jeanne paled. Her eyes fought between narrowing and widening. “Not dare to make me happy? Not dare to try? Not worth your effort?”

His confidence returned and so too his playfulness. “Perhaps I mean that I would not dare to dream of such happiness for myself.” Jeanne did not rise to the sarcasm.

“It would dishonour Marguerite. She is my friend.” Jeanne remained determined.

Henri though smirked and even twirled his moustache as he replied, “Would a friend object to your happiness?”

Jeanne pressed a hand against the trunk of the oak and deeply inhaled the fresh air before responding. “Do not, I beg, play your word games… any of your games with me. I do not relish being made to look the fool, Marechal-des-Logis! Are you never serious?”

“In the arms of a woman, I sober entirely.”

“Marechal! Please! Are these the games that you play with my friend? Does Marguerite believe that she is but playing a game with you?”

Henri gave a sigh and slipped from his swaggering demeanour. He said “Marguerite is a fine and intelligent woman, is she not? She knows exactly what she is doing. Her husband? Well, her husband will not see the mirth in the matter but when a wife seeks the company of another man, it can only be because the husband has brought her to those straits.”

“You have no wife, Marechal-des-Logis.” Jeanne had no doubts.

“I am a soldier.”

“Many soldiers marry.”

“Those soldiers become cuckolds.” Henri answered without a smile.

Jeanne though did manage her first smile of the engagement. “I adjudged you a romantic but are you instead a cynic?”

“In time, I will marry but to leave a wife alone amid these wars would be cruel.”

“Cruel because she would love you?”

“Indeed” said Henri.

Jeanne pursued the argument. “Yet, you would have Marguerite love you. Is that not cruel?”

Exasperated, Henri looked about for something to kick at. “Confound you, Mademoiselle! Confound me. I cannot help if women love me. It is never my intent to have them fall.”

“Nevertheless, they do.”

“They do” said Henri. “Yes.”

“I see” Jeanne concluded and let her gaze drop to the grassy floor. She looked back up to the Hussar though when he leaned in with a wagging finger.

 “Nothing that I do should encourage love. I am fickle. I am capricious. I am, as you have said, incapable of seeming earnest. I am a flatterer.”

“That is quite a litany of charges, Monsieur Hussar. It is a marvel that you could tolerate your own company. I wonder though… if you are so fully faulted, how does any woman love you? And so many? Your crimes condemn the feminine sex as foolish dupes or, at best, accomplices in your swindle.”

“There is no accounting for it” asserted Henri.

“No, there is no accounting for it.” Jeanne agreed and then paused to ponder something within her. There was something about the presence of this man that was tugging at Jeanne’s sensibilities. Something about the weight of his hands where they rested so decisively upon his hips was pestering her reasoning. “Perhaps, Sir,” she ventured, “it is your wit.”

“I thought I was the flatterer among us” was the quip.

“You do not seem to be. You do not flatter yourself at all. Were you to flatter me, you would betray yourself as a liar as well.”

“I could make much merit of your intellect and wit.”

Jeanne did not allow the sentence to end there and added, “…should you but see some advantage in doing so. You judge me than as bright as yourself?”

She is going to be a minx, decided Henri. With his brightest of grins, Henri tossed out a toy. “You are as handsome as I.”

“My moustache cannot rival yours.”

No hair graced Jeanne’s upper lip and no deformity either. As Henri took the opportunity to earnestly assess the quality of Jeanne’s prettiness, he could find no gross flaw but no beauty either. The nose was too round for her slender face. Her brows were thick and uneven. That failing at least could be addressed but that they had not been tended was telling. The girl’s eyes, heavily lidded, were neither round enough to be pretty nor almond shaped for character. Even a poet would have a hard time forcing broken eggs from his mind. Still, there was a light there, were one to look for it.

Few would not admire Henri Darlon’s moustache. It was thick exactly where it ought to be thick and thinned to the daintiest little curls at the outside. The framing of the moustache and braided black locks depending from his temples drew one’s gaze mercilessly to his bright, flashing blue eyes. The man’s neck, wrapped in a yellow piped high collar, was exactly as wide as his face and that smile that ever seemed to dance upon his lips somehow was made more delightfully curved by his strong and stable jaw.

It was perhaps too long a pause as the two stood studying the other’s appearance and Jeanne, at least, was soon overwhelmed by the circumstance. Henri could see fear commence to well up in her eyes. He clowned his face and Jeanne was spared. Laughing, she leaned back against the oak but soon found her footing again.

“Marechal-des-Logis Darlon, will you spare Marguerite?”

“If you wish it,” he said, “then I will. How would you have me end it?”

“Could you make her hate you? Should I help you? Shall I put evil in her ear about you?” Jeanne had, in her imaginings, thought long about how she might answer just such a question but the ideas that she had conjured then came out of her now as hollow and false.

“No,” said Henri, “That is: I could, but it would not serve your ends. If she hated me then she would hate herself for being tricked… deceived.”

Jeanne’s fists were little and impotent.

“I do not know then. I know so little of such things. My heart… she would hate herself?” asked Jeanne.

“Deeply. I will find a way.”

“What must I do?” she asked without hope.

Henri held up a finger but then shook his head and dismissed a notion. “I will find a way,” he affirmed.

Suddenly Jeanne lit up with an idea. “How about this?” The plan was still forming as she rattled it off. “You could let her husband find out… and then he duels you… and you lose it… without being hurt… and concede… or something and then she will love her husband for defending her!”  Though she was becoming enamoured of this notion, Jeanne could sense Henri tightening up.

It had begun to grow dark.

“Impossible,” answered Henri, as he took one step backward.

Jeanne pursued, leading with her weak foot. “Why not? Are you not a good enough swordsman to feign defeat?”

“It is impossible.”

“It would solve everything. It would satisfy everyone.”

The shake of the man’s head was decisive and curt. “I have my reputation.”

“You’ve lost fights before, surely. What of Marguerite’s reputation?”

“It is impossible.”

Jeanne would not discard this notion despite the third resolute repetition. Perhaps another approach could break his will. “If you love her?”

“Marguerite should not believe that I love her.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Jeanne, taken aback. “Why else could she betray her husband?”

“She should know that I do not love her. When a Hussar loves, he stands upon a rooftop and declares it to the Sun and the Moon, to the Stars, to whoever will listen. We are not keepers of secret passions. A Hussar does not hide his heart under his pelisse but hurls it like a great fireball at the world.”

 Jeanne retreated to her oak lest she be singed. When she was quite certain that Henri had finished his speech, she summoned the courage to challenge him, saying, “It is good for you that you know so well how you will act each time that you fall in love. Have you been in love many times, Marechal-des-Logis?”

 “I am not Casanova nor Don Juan.”

 “No,” considered Jeanne, “you are not.”

 Dropping his guard, Henri wondered, “Was that riposte intended to wound me?” but Jeanne remained mercilessly impolitic.

 “Have you loved?” she asked.

 Henri’s answer came after but a moment’s consideration. “That is one of those questions. Were this question asked by a man, my answer would be that I have oft been loved but never ensnared. Were it a woman, I would answer with what she wished to hear.”

 “You are a liar then Sir. You spoke just now of not hiding your heart.”

 The soldier studied the girl as though perhaps he was seeing her for the first time. The look lasted a long while as he considered a good many different ways to address this insult.

 “Yes then, a liar,” he began. “But this false tongue defends a true heart. Indeed, it protects an innocent heart. I am a storyteller, describing this world as it ought to be, in hopes that I might make it so. I lie to be the man I wish to be and everyday, in every act, strive to prove myself honest. I fail. I succeed. I get better. I could not despair though if deceit were my deepest vice.”

 “Some would call that hypocrisy,” said Jeanne.

 “I would not,” answered Henri, “and nor would you.”

 She was haughty now and took an uneven step forward. “What does your noble heart think of the prospects of a woman being courted by a liar? What would your soul’s counsel be to such a woman?”

 Henri did not retreat and locked his eyes upon Jeanne’s. He answered, “Mademoiselle, in the first place, I must request that, after having found me out and gaining a confession, you henceforth and hereafter refrain from openly questioning my honour and integrity. I will be reminded of my every fault each moment that I am reflected in your gaze. Guilt will, I assure you, assault me at but the whisper of your name. Were it thus your aim, I would commend your marksmanship. The target was justly struck. You may shoulder your weapon.”

 Doubt played at the edges of Jeanne’s imagination. She rallied though while the breeze blew oaken leaves about her. “… and in the second place?”

 Brushing indiscernible debris from the tall hat in his hands, Henri allowed things to settle. “No. I will not try to best your shot. I will instead bite back a rueful, honest question that had been maliciously designed. I have not the will to wish you ill. Let us end this duel. Wounded, I remain standing, staunching the flow. I discharge my pistol and allow you to go.” With that, the Hussar resettled the mirliton atop him and offered a most disarmingly pleasant smile to Jeanne.

“Must I?”

 “You should. It is after dark.”

 “Yes,” said Jeanne. She would need to account for her own lies. Her mother would require answers. “Thank you.”

 “Thank you, Mademoiselle Jeanne. You were a stout champion for your cause. She could have no cause for complaint.”

Marguerite. Marguerite too would require answers. She must still be waiting. She would be expecting Henri. What must Marguerite think?

Jeanne stammered, “Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Marechal-des-Logis. I should go.” Henri took Jeanne by the arm again, as any gentleman should, but still Jeanne’s heart skipped. Resting her hand upon his sleeve, she was keenly aware of the man’s strength. She hardly limped at all, she thought, as he escorted her to the garrison gates.  

“Trooper Laplante, You will conduct this young lady to her home in Montreuil.” The sentry commenced to protest but Henri had an answer. “I will stand your watch until you return. Take your time. Take her arm.” 

Jeanne thanked the soldier and traded down. She thanked Henri again. 

“Good night, Jeanne,” said Henri. 

The trooper waited for Jeanne to turn. “I should go,” the girl said. Good night. Thank you.” She then inhaled deep enough to get that aroma that she wanted and began to limp toward town. She held her breath as long as she dared.