Chapter 11
Paying the Butcher Bill
Sainte-Camieux, Aregonde County, Republic of Artagna
Sunny was true to her word. She was able to keep up with a harder pace and so they were able to reach Sainte-Camieux at least a day earlier than what Marx was figuring. The sooner they were out of Artagna, the better.
When they were still a couple kilometers off, Marx started circling around the city to approach from the west side, cutting across via the narrow trails between fields.
"Why are we going around?" Sunny asked. "Isn't that city where we want to go?"
"The station'll be closer if we go in from the other side," Marx said.
That excuse would not hold up to scrutiny as it would take more time to go around the city than to go through it. Also, as he had never been out this far before, he did not even know if the station really was closer to the west side than the east. It had some plausibility to it as all the rail lines were westbound, but that was not the true reason at all.
Even though he had gone nearly two hundred kilometers and crossed county lines, he worried there might be people out looking for him and if they were lying in wait for him, they would be focusing on the eastern gates. Sunny did not need to know that, though.
Once they got to the main road, Marx found a suitable place and sat down. Sunny cocked her curiously at the sight of this.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting," Marx said. "We'll head in once traffic picks up around sunset."
"Won't it be easier to go in when there's not a lot of other people?"
"Questions get asked when you come and go at odd hours," Marx replied. "Questions I don't think either of us want to bother with."
That was only part of the reason. Marx was aiming to blend in with the crowd, but there needed to be a crowd to blend into first. Maybe he was being too paranoid, but he had not gotten this far to get caught now. Also, if anything were to happen to him, what would happen to Sunny? A girl on her own, without means, without memories... It could not possibly end well.
Yes, he could wrap himself in a cloak of philanthropy, however thin it might be. He might even convince himself that he was a good person.
Sunny did not ask any further questions and sat down beside him. After a few moments of just staring into the distance, she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. It struck Marx as odd how such little gestures of intimacy came so naturally to her. Most girls would show more reservation around a man they barely knew, but perhaps due to Sunny's memory loss, Marx was the closest person she had. Whatever the reason, Marx did not mind it, though he imagined the allure would be stronger if she played hard to get.
Perhaps they could have just sat there like that for hours, but Marx found himself talking, if for no better reason than to put his thoughts in order.
"Thanks to you being willing to tough it out in the wilds and live off field rations, we have enough cash to get to the border. If we're going to get to Aix-Clovin, though, we'll need to make some more money. A few days doing day labor should be enough, provided there's work to be had. It'll go faster if you could help out, but I don't know if you should given... well, you know. Also, I don't know how well I like the idea of you goin' about town on your own."
"We can figure that out when we get to... where is it we're going again?"
"City called Champs des Bleuets, just a few kilometers from the border. If we're on a train, they won't even bother with passports. It's different if you're takin' the roads. At least the main ones all have border posts, tolls and fees and all that... or so I've heard."
"What if they want to check our passports when we get our tickets?" Sunny asked.
"Then things get more difficult. I wouldn't even know what to do to get forged papers and I imagine askin' around would be a fine way to get me picked up by the Gendarmes."
"Could we not just sneak across?"
"Probably, but we'll catch all hell if some border troops catch us."
"Which is worse, the border troops or the Gendarmes?"
"I suppose the border troops are more likely to just shoot us, while the Gendarmes would arrest us and after that, who knows what? One's quick, certain and permanent while the other's pretty much the opposite. Pick your poison."
Sunny sighed. It did not sound like either poison appealed to her too much.
"We can deal with it when the time comes," she said.
Marx wondered if it was because of the amnesia that she was able to speak so calmly about it. Most people would show a little more apprehension at the prospect of being shot by border troops or being arrested by the Gendarmes. She certainly was an odd one.
They did not talk much after that. Marx was not much of a talker to begin with and Sunny was almost never the one to start a conversation. Some people could not handle silence and always needed some manner of noise around them, be it talking, music or whatever. The two of them were not counted among such people and so they quietly passed the time until sunset.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, people started to return from the fields to their homes in the city. Even this far out, most people were too afraid to live outside the safety of the walls. Three wars with the Hessians will do that to a people.
Once there was enough people on the road, Marx and Sunny got up and blended into the crowd. Although nothing appeared out of the ordinary, Marx struggled to keep his apprehension in check as they approached the gate. He expected to see a whole rifle platoon with fixed bayonets ready to put a few dozen new holes in him. What he saw was a pair of bored Gendarmes, one of whom looking like his only chance of catching a man was if you rolled him down a hill. That was something of a relief, but he could not lower his guard.
Marx had never been to a city as big as Sainte-Camieux before, but he did his damnedest to not let it show. Sunny seemed to be fine, reinforcing Marx's idea that she was originally a city girl. This gave him all the more reason to try to not look like a hopelessly lost country bumpkin as he asked around to find his way to the train station.
Contrary to what Marx had heard about city folk, the people he asked were more than happy to point him in the right direction. At this rate, things might actually go off without a hitch. Could he dare to hope?
When they got to the station, they queued up for the ticket counter, but while they were standing there waiting, it was like Marx's head was on a swivel. This was the most nervous he had been. They were so close now. Would Fate be so cruel as to spoil things now?
With this worry weighing heavily on his mind, his turn finally came up. It took a nudge from Sunny for him to realize it.
"Oh, ah, two third-class tickets for Champs des Bleuets," he said.
"Two third-class for Champs des Bleuets?" the station attendant asked to confirm. "Is that one-way or round trip?"
"One-way."
"Two third-class for Champs des Bleuets, one-way. That'll be nine sixty."
Marx pulled out the little coin purse on a string he kept hidden under his shirt and began counting out the coins.
"Out of ten, your change'll be forty centimes," the station attendant said as punched the numbers into the cash register.
Once the attendant deposited the coins and drew out the change, he stamped two tickets and offered them to Marx along with the change.
"Do you need a receipt?" the attendant asked.
"No, that's fine," Marx replied.
"The next train is departing on Platform 3 in sixteen minutes."
Marx nodded and said, "Thanks."
He turned to give Sunny her ticket, but she was standing there with her back ramrod straight looking off in another direction. He had seen this sort of thing before in deer alerted to danger, just before they darted off. The darting off part came before he could ask what was wrong. She grabbed him by the arm and started to run, but already there were men carrying strange bundles standing in the way. They untied the covers on the bundles to reveal rifles, and not just any rifles but the old Model 325s used by the Volunteer Militia.
While it was not so uncommon to see people carrying rifles out in the countryside, either hunters or farmers who were out shooting at the crows ravaging their fields, it was different in the city, it would seem. As soon as the rifles were revealed, there were screams and people either running away in a panic or curled up to cower where they stood.
Above all the commotion, a harsh voice shouted, "It's the end of the line for you, Chasseur Weissman!"
A man stepped out dressed as a workman like the others, but he was hardly cut from the same cloth. Marx did not know who he was, but he recognized one of the men with him, and for that matter, he recognized the faces of the men pointing rifles at him.
Marx and Sunny looked quite out of place while everyone else was either on the ground or running away. Eight riflemen surrounded the ticket counter, all with their rifles pointed at Marx. As if that were not enough, the man with a harsh voice drew an old-fashioned Dragoon model pistol and pointed it at Marx as well.
"Chasseur Carlos Weissman, I'm placing you under arrest for desertion," the man said. "I'd like to bring you in alive, but if you resist, I'll give the order to open fire. You may think that's better than what you've got coming, but I can't guarantee the aim of your fellow militiamen. Your little companion there might take a few of the bullets meant for you."
"I don't know who the hell you are," Marx growled, "but you leave her out of this. She's got nothing to do with this."
"Who I am is Colonel Maurice de Villein," the man replied, "commanding officer of the Artagnan Third Regiment."
Marx may not have recognized the face, but he knew the name and the reputation that went with it. Colonel de Villein. Le Boucher. There was as much reason to run with a man like that at your back as there was with the Hessians in front of you.
Colonel de Villein could see the look of recognition in Marx's eyes and grinned. It was unsurprising that he was the sort of man who revelled in his evil reputation.
"Come quietly and you won't have to worry about the girl," the Colonel said.
There were a number of ways that could be interpreted and Marx saw no reason to assume a favorable one. If the Colonel intended to pass Sunny around as a plaything for his men, it would be more merciful to let her die with him in a hail of gunfire.
"What?" the Colonel asked. "By that look in your eye, I'd say you're thinking of things that would impugn my honor. I said you wouldn't have to worry. I'll be sending her back to where she came from."
"What do you mean?"
"Some gypsies come for her," the Colonel said. "It's thanks to them we were able to catch you this easily. Now, Chasseur Weissman, will you come quietly?"
Marx looked to Sunny. She certainly did not look like she was a gypsy and if handing her over was the Colonel's plan, it might not be an improvement over what Marx previously imagined.
Sunny gripped Marx's sleeve and asked him, "Do you trust me?"
"Well enough, I suppose," Marx said. "Why?"
"I can try to get us out of this. If you want to surrender, I won't stop you, but I can't let them catch me."
"Like as not, my choices are to be shot now or shot later, so you're the only one with anything to lose."
"Then you'll stay with me?"
"Till the death, it looks like."
Sunny gave him a bit of a smile and took hold of his hand, saying, "Don't let go."
She closed her eyes and began her wordless chanting. Her skirts whipped about as the ground began to glow with a dull orange light. There was a voice a short ways off shouting in some foreign language. If it was supposed to be a warning, it was too late.
The ground seemed to open up in the shape of a crescent moon and that dull light flashed brightly before spewing out jets of flame. Even though the flames were directed away from them, Marx naturally recoiled and held up his free hand to shield his face. Sunny, however, wasted no time pulling him along while gunshots began cracking around them.
They went through the gates and Sunny paused for a moment to confirm the sight of the train waiting at Platform 3 before running up the stairs to the bridge that connected the platforms.
"Sunny!" Marx shouted. "The train's not even leaving for another sixteen minutes!"
"It doesn't have to leave yet," Sunny said. "We just have to get on it."
It was a little surprising just how little the panic around the ticket counter had spread to the platforms. Had they not seen the flare or heard the shots? Maybe not.
Once they got down the stairs on the other side, Sunny slowed her pace to a rather brisk walk and pulled Marx closer alongside her.
"Which car do we get in?" she asked.
The tickets were sandwiched between their palms, so Marx gave Sunny's hand a little squeeze to get her to loosen her grip so he could get to them. The ink was a bit smudged, but he could still make out which car they were assigned to.
"Car 10," he said, "near the back."
They made their way to Car 10 and boarded. Third class was standing room only and this particular car was already pretty well packed. The two of them found a spot to wedge themselves into and though there was not that much room to be had, Sunny seemed to cling to him especially tightly.
"Don't talk to me until we're well underway," she said. "I need to concentrate."
Marx did not ask what she needed to concentrate on. All he did was a quarter turn so she would not be as visible through the window. The windows in the third-class car were small, so it was not that easy to look in anyway, but it was also not that easy to look out. He feared the sight of disguised militiamen with their rifles coming to storm the car, but he would probably not be able to see them if they did.
Marx had no watch, but he had a fair sense of the time even without one. The sixteen minutes surely had passed and the longer the time dragged on, the more he feared someone would come for them. All the while, Sunny was so still she may as well have been a statue.
Then, after nearly two hours went by, the train rocked as it went into motion. It was not until the first stop came and went that Marx ventured to speak to Sunny.
"Are we in the clear?" he asked her.
"For now, I think," she said.
"What was all that about?"
"I had to focus on hiding from the one who was hunting me."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I could feel their eyes on me."
"Are they still hunting you?"
"I do not feel them now."
That was not quite the answer Marx was looking for, but he decided to leave it be. Perhaps it would have been wise to leave off any other questions as well, but he felt the need to probe about just a little bit further.
"What do you know about gypsies?"
"Aren't you supposed to call them Roma?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
"'Gypsy' is offensive, I've been told."
"By who?"
"Who knows?"
"Can you think of any reason why gypsies, Romas or whatever would think they've got a claim to you?"
"I don't know."
This was getting him nowhere, so he might as well give it up. There was only one thing he really wanted to know at the moment.
He asked her again, "Are we in the clear?"
"I think so," she said, not much differently from the first time.
She clutched at his shirt, tightening and loosening her grip like a cat pawing at some bedding before settling in for a nap. Again, it was not the answer Marx was looking for, but it would have to do. He patted her head, figuring that if she was going to act the part of a house cat, he would treat her accordingly.