Here is a new chapter! Enjoy!
And thank you Mium, Porthos10, AlexZero12, Ponny-Samy_2279, Galan_05, Shingle_Top, Dekol347 and paffnytij for your support!
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His old friends had come as soon as they heard the news of his return.
Without their uniforms, François might almost have had trouble recognizing them—except perhaps Jean, with his impressive build.
The giant looked cramped in his peasant clothes, stained with earth and reeking of sweat. The smell was so strong it gave the impression that they hadn't been washed in days.
His hair, a little shorter than last time, was tied back in a small ponytail held by a simple leather lace. The shadow of a beard covered his chin, making him look older and rougher.
That light beard, however, suited him well.
The moment he caught sight of François's face, he rushed forward, swept him into his arms, and lifted him off the ground as if he were a child.
"O-ouch!"
"François! Ahaha! You're really back! Ah, I'm so glad to see you! Ahaha!"
Jean's booming laughter rang in his ears while his steel-like arms squeezed the breath out of him.
François's feet kicked in the air like the fins of a fish out of water.
"I… can't breathe… Ah! And you stink of sweat!"
The others burst out laughing but didn't step in to rescue their friend. Jean finally set him back down, and when he noticed François's reddened face, he laughed even harder.
"Ahah! Look at you—so red! And look at yourself! You look so impressive in that fine uniform—like a general!"
Louis gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs, which didn't make him budge—like trying to move a rock.
"He's a major, not a general," Louis said. "First he has to become a lieutenant colonel, then a colonel."
"Ah, by heaven, that's right!" Jean said, scratching his head, a little embarrassed. "But that means it's pretty close, isn't it? Tell me, François—how long do you think before you become a general?"
Louis rolled his eyes, as did the others.
"Do you think it's that easy? If he reaches the rank of colonel by the end of his career, that will already be quite an achievement, given his origins. As for generals—there aren't many of them, and for good reason."
Louis then stepped forward and embraced François warmly. The former most handsome boy of the group—if not of all Corbie—had long since lost his angelic features.
A long scar on his left cheek, cutting a harsh diagonal from the corner of his mouth to his ear, had transformed his appearance.
It gave him the look of a ruthless brigand, but his gentle eyes and calm demeanor belied that impression.
"I'm so happy to see you again, my old friend! How are you?"
"Very well, thank you. My wife and children are too, so everything is good."
Louis's smile deepened at the thought of the beautiful Onatah. Naturally, he knew his friend had married the Iroquois beauty and that they had two children.
François seized the opportunity to ask,
"And what about you? How are things on your end?"
"I can't complain," Louis replied, his heart full of pride. "I'm a happy husband and a fulfilled father. Anne-Sophie and I do our best to raise our children well. Oh, by the way, she's expecting again!"
"Really?! Congratulations!"
"Hehe, thank you. We're hoping for a boy this time."
The major's smile widened.
It seemed like only yesterday he had discovered that a woman had joined Monsieur de Bréhant's regiment disguised as a man—and that she had formed a clandestine relationship with Louis.
As Louis had promised, when she was sent back to France, he had found her again after the war and married her.
On his first visit, the adorable couple already had two daughters. A third had been born in 1768. This would therefore be their fourth child.
"Well," François said, "I hope God grants your wish. And if not… there's always the next one."
Louis blanched.
"T-the next one? Ah, I don't have your pay, you know! Feeding a family is expensive—especially these days."
Behind his smile, François sensed a very real worry.
Next came Charles's turn.
Despite the years, he still exuded that martial bearing that commanded respect. He wore the uprightness of a former soldier as naturally as a second skin.
That quality served him well in his profession, as he had joined the maréchaussée upon his return to France. His experience, composure, and presence had helped him rise to the rank of sergeant.
He was wearing the uniform now: a blue cloth coat lined with red, red facings, silver buttons, a black felt tricorne edged with silver braid, and tall riding boots. His weapons—musket and sword—completed the ensemble.
"Ah, Charles! Aren't you hot in that outfit?"
François embraced him in turn and kissed him like a brother.
"How are you?"
"As you can see, all is well," he replied calmly. "Ah, I'm lucky—I'd have regretted missing you. I leave tomorrow for Amiens."
"Amiens? What are you going to do there?"
Charles let out a small sigh and stepped aside.
"The usual routine. We've caught the leader of a gang of brigands who've been plaguing the region for the past few weeks. We have to take him there to stand trial."
"Really?" said François, surprised. "Something happened around here?"
"Not exactly in Corbie. He was captured between Villers-Bretonneux and the post station at Herville. He'd just attacked a coach. Unfortunately, we arrived too late to stop it. Two people were killed. All that for a bit of gold, a few jewels, and some luggage."
François's face darkened, his jaw tightening.
"I hope they hang him."
Charles and the others nodded slowly.
"There's no reason they won't."
Then, as if to drive away the shadow of that thought, he asked:
"Did you come with your wife and children?"
François smiled again, as if he'd been expecting the question.
"As I told my parents, they stayed at the estate. Pierre and Louis are still too young to make the ocean crossing. We'll probably have to wait a few more years before they can handle the journey."
"And in the meantime," Louis cut in with a teasing smile, "your lovely wife will have given you another child, and you'll put the trip off yet again. I know how it is."
The little group burst out laughing.
Finally, François turned to Jules, so quiet that one could almost forget he was there. He stood slightly apart, his face calm but his eyes weary. His faint smile, however, betrayed a deep joy.
Of them all, he was the one who had aged the most—not from years, but from what he had seen and endured. He was only just beginning to recover from the trials he had faced during the last war.
That smile was proof of it.
Time was slowly smoothing over the scars on his heart, but it couldn't erase them entirely.
He often woke in the middle of the night, terrified, haunted by images he could not forget. Sounds, sights, and smells pursued him like a tireless ghost, rarely granting him peace.
Sometimes he would leap from his bed, only half awake, and scurry to hide behind the nearest piece of furniture, clutching a broom with a trembling hand as if it were a musket.
Then he might shout orders for long minutes and call to soldiers only he could see—until he realized he was no longer in the New World.
"Jules, my old friend… how happy I am to see you again."
The scarred man let out a soft sigh, as if relieved, and accepted his friend's embrace. The sight of a white uniform—even though it wasn't the one he himself had worn for years—still gripped his heart.
"François… it's been so long."
"Three years," the major confirmed without letting go of his childhood friend. "I wish I'd been able to return to Corbie sooner to see you all again, but duty gave me no choice. Ah, my friends, I really missed your ugly mugs!"
Jean tilted his head.
"Our ugly mugs? Hey, don't lump me in with the rest of them. Look at me—I'm more handsome than ever!"
The giant struck ridiculous poses to show off his impressive muscles, drawing laughter all around.
"Haha! If you say so," François conceded, tears of mirth in his eyes.
Louis suddenly stepped closer to François, narrowing his eyes as though trying to read his future on his friend's face.
"Hmm? What's this I see? Could those be wrinkles? Has our officer started to grow old?"
François smiled, a little sheepishly.
"It's from worrying too much. When I see the new recruits, I fear for New France. They remind me too much of us in our early days."
"Hey, in that case there's hope," Charles remarked, thinking back to those times that felt so near yet so far. "With an officer like you, they're in good hands, aren't they?"
"The road is still long."
Then, with a gesture full of self-mockery, François removed his powdered wig and revealed his own hair with a laugh.
"Look at this, my friends! They've already managed to give me my first white hairs!"
A great burst of laughter shook the group, bringing a tender smile to Marie and Charles Boucher, who watched the heart-warming scene from a distance.
Marie leaned toward her husband and whispered softly,
"This brings back so many memories, doesn't it?"
The gray-haired woman's shoulder brushed gently against Charles Boucher's.
"Yes. But the boys have changed so much in the meantime. And one is missing."
For a moment, Marie's face clouded with sadness. Her large blue eyes lingered on the faces of her son and his friends.
"They don't show it, but I know they still suffer from the absence of little Hippolyte."
"It's life," murmured Charles, thinking of his own losses. "No one is eternal. Wars cut down the young and leave the rest with scars—some visible, others not. All we can do is keep moving forward, carrying in our hearts the memory of those who are no longer with us."
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As the August sky turned a soft golden hue, the small group left the Boucher household and made their way to a well-regarded inn in Corbie. It was a modest yet welcoming place with a clean façade, its warm light and the cheerful murmur of voices spilling from the windows inviting passers-by to step inside.
It was a far better place to celebrate François's return than a rough tavern, where drink often led to brawls.
François and his friends settled at a long oak table set to the right of the spacious hall, against a wall adorned with a few war mementos and engravings depicting scenes from the town's history.
The innkeeper, a slender woman in her forties with dark hair and rosy cheeks, served them briskly yet cheerfully: two sausages—one with walnuts and the other with goat's cheese—which they devoured with gusto.
Next came a steaming civet stew, accompanied by coarse black bread and a pitcher of wine.
At the far end of the room, a wide stone fireplace housed a vigorous fire that devoured thick logs and bundles of dry kindling. The flames cast a warm orange glow that reached as high as the sturdy beams crossing the ceiling.
The pleasant scent of burning wood mingled with the aroma of their hearty meal. The meat was so tender it could have been cut with a spoon—though one had to be careful of the small bones.
François frowned, slipped two fingers into his mouth to remove a stray bone, and set it on the rim of his plate.
Charles, still in his maréchaussée sergeant's uniform, raised his glass.
"To your safe return, François!"
"To your return!" the others echoed in unison, raising their cups.
François clinked glasses with each of them before taking a generous swallow of the crimson liquid. It was perhaps not the finest wine he had ever tasted, but shared among friends, it held a special flavor.
They were not alone at the table: the wives and children—at least those who had them—had insisted on joining the gathering, though they did not intend to stay late.
Anne-Sophie, seated beside Louis, smiled gently, her youngest daughter already asleep in her arms.
Jean was accompanied by a woman who looked almost girlish thanks to her delicate features—Denise. She was petite, seemingly fragile as a porcelain doll, and lovely, with large black eyes that sparkled in the candlelight.
The couple owned a small farm west of Corbie, between the town and the village of Estampes, and had a four-year-old son named Paul. Tall for his age, people already said that as he grew he would come to resemble his father and would, within a decade, tower over his mother.
Jules, too, had married despite his lingering trauma. His wife, Anne, was the very embodiment of kindness. Her many virtues—and her steady presence—were slowly helping to heal him.
"So," Jean suddenly said, breaking the quiet contentment of the meal with his booming voice, "how long are you staying in Corbie? A few months, I hope?"
François set down his cup, still holding it between his fingers.
"Until spring. Even though I love you all, my friends, I can't stay too long. I'm already lucky to have been granted such a long leave."
"You're staying the whole winter?!" the giant exclaimed, shaking the entire table. "That's excellent news!"
Tiny beside her husband, Denise turned to François with a touch of sadness in her eyes.
"Does that mean you won't have another leave for a long time?"
François pressed his lips together, his expression full of regret.
"Very likely, yes. At least… four or five years, I'd say. Longer if the kingdom goes back to war."
"W-war?!" Anne-Sophie gasped.
The word weighed heavily over the table, wiping away every smile. Jules's shoulders and hands began to tremble violently.
Realizing he had touched a raw nerve, François hastened to correct himself.
"All is well. For now, there's no conflict on the horizon. Neither we nor the English want another war—our finances won't allow it. From what I hear, both our kingdoms need peace to fill their coffers."
Denise let out a long, deep sigh of relief, then rested her head against Jean's immense arm, as solid as an ancient oak.
How adorable they are, thought François as he watched the pair. Haha, they're so different!
A little later, as night had just fallen, Hugues and Catherine entered the Sleeping Ram Inn, walking side by side, arm in arm like an old married couple. Naturally, they had heard of François's return and had come to join the celebration.
The long table soon proved too small for the growing party, and another table—luckily free—was drawn up beside it. Two more jugs of wine were ordered, and the conversation grew livelier as one memory after another resurfaced.
"Hey!" Jean shouted, slapping the long table with his palm. "Do you remember the time we turned the market square into a battlefield? We had a giant snowball fight with nearly all the children of Corbie!"
"Oh yes! That was amazing!" Catherine exclaimed with a hearty laugh. "I made a huge snowball and threw it right at Charles—hit him square in the face!"
"And right after that, I got my revenge," the latter recalled, grinning from ear to ear. "I stuffed the snowball I was shaping right down your neck!"
"Pwahaha! And you got one of those slaps! You had the mark for days afterward!"
Jean's thunderous laugh rang out across the entire inn, drawing smiles from other patrons, many of whom could easily picture the scene—some of them had even witnessed it themselves.
"And you, Jean," Catherine added, wiping away a tear of laughter, "you made a gigantic snowball… and since you couldn't aim, you smashed the window of the chapelry!"
Hugues jolted upright.
"What?! That was you?! All this time you knew? Why didn't you say anything when he accused me?!"
"Well… uh…"
"My mother gave me I don't know how many lashes with a stick! I couldn't even sit down! And on top of that, I was denied supper!"
François burst into laughter.
"So that's why you sulked for days afterward! I thought it was because you lost the battle!"
"Ahahaha!"
Hugues turned crimson and drained his glass in one gulp before setting it down a little too abruptly. He started to rise as if to leave the table, but Catherine laid a gentle hand on his forearm to stop him.
"Oh, come on, Hugues. Don't make that face. That was what… fifteen years ago? Just childish mischief, that's all."
The angular-faced man pulled a slight grimace, then nodded.
"Very well. Jean, I forgive you for keeping silent."
Jean held his cup in midair, raised an eyebrow at Hugues, and gave him a teasing smile.
"Thank you for your boundless mercy, sir. I can finally sleep in peace knowing the gates of Heaven are open to me. Well… almost."
He pretended to ponder for a moment and scratched his beard.
"Since we're confessing things… I'm the one who ate your mother's plum tart when we were kids. Oh, and the one who lost your little boat. I tried to float it on the river, and it sank."
Hugues's face, which had just calmed, instantly flushed purple again, making him look like a beetroot.
"I–I forgive you," he grumbled slowly through clenched teeth—prompting another round of uproarious laughter.
The revived conversation soon carried them back to other childhood memories: games of hide-and-seek, escapades through the fields, memorable punishments… There were so many that a single evening wasn't enough to recount them all.
It was then that a new couple entered the inn.
The buzz of voices dimmed slightly as they approached. They were not exactly childhood friends, yet they were undeniably part of François's past.
More precisely…
"Agathes Desmoulins…" François murmured, a little surprised.
The woman he had once nearly married—one of the reasons he had chosen to join the King's army.
"Agathes Ferrand," the stout woman gently corrected, offering a sincere smile. "Good evening, François. I heard you were back."
She was accompanied by her husband, Jacob Ferrand, a tall man with narrow shoulders whose figure had taken on a pear shape after putting on several pounds over the years.
Both enjoyed a comfortable life in Corbie. Jacob, by marrying the daughter of one of the town's wealthiest merchants, had become his associate.
They led a life free from want—a life François did not envy. The price for it, in his eyes, was far too high.
His gaze quickly swept over Agathes, dressed in a fine pink gown—nothing like what he had seen in the salon of Mademoiselle de Lespinasse.
"You look well," she said politely as she stepped closer. "I'm glad to see it."
"Ah, yes… hum, you too," François replied, a little stiffly. "I mean, you look well. And you too, Jacob."
The latter nodded without a word, his brow faintly furrowed.
Once, Agathes had felt disappointment and even anger toward François. She had always known she wasn't beautiful, so when she learned he had preferred to go to war rather than marry her… she hadn't taken it well and had shed many tears.
Yet she had eventually forgiven him. Marriage was a serious matter, but love had its weight too.
It was better the break came early than that both end up unhappy.
Her marriage to Jacob was not perfect, but she was relatively content. She had many children—absent that evening, as it was late.
And yet she could not help but wonder what might have been. Her eyes could not help but admire the remarkable man François had become.
That did not go unnoticed.
The atmosphere around the long table grew awkward. No one there was ignorant of their shared history.
Discreet glances were exchanged as the couple was seated at a nearby round table that was brought over.
In the end, the large group occupied the entire right-hand side of the great hall, from the entrance to the fireplace.
François could feel Agathes's insistent gaze, but he pretended not to notice.
Agathes Desmoulins… She hasn't improved in three years… To think Father wanted me to marry her.
A faint shiver ran down his spine, and he spared a sympathetic thought for her husband.
She had a round face, rosy cheeks, light-colored hair, eyes set rather close together and drooping slightly, a narrow nose, and a neck reminiscent of a frog's. Not to mention the dark down on her upper lip, almost like a moustache, and her eyebrows so thick they nearly formed a single bar above her eyes.
François had learned of their marriage when he returned to Corbie, by chance crossing their path in 1766. The encounter had been particularly awkward for them both.
Fortunately, there seems to be no resentment between us. I feel nothing for her. We each went our own way, and that's for the best.
Happily, the awkward mood did not linger, and the evening continued in good spirits.
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The night stretched late, and under the effects of the wine, François barely noticed the gradual departure of the women and children. At last, only the men remained—along with Catherine.
They stayed at the inn until closing time, and François returned to his family's butcher shop without quite knowing how—most likely thanks to Yann Madec.
He had barely reached his room before he collapsed onto his bed and sank at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.