Chapter 39

It was decided Louis and I would set out for Lyon where we would pass Chaton’s camp, and the sounds our horses made would alert anyone to our presence. I prayed they would stay hidden until we passed while searching for other Gypsies to round up. My throat was filled with a lump that threatened to erupt at the thought of what we were about to do. I swallowed repeatedly to keep the growing nausea at bay.

We talked of unimportant things as we rode, the food—all slop—the uncomfortable cots, and the endless schooling on things we would never need to know.

I held my breath when we approached the place where Chaton and her family were camped. The only sounds were the whisper of the leaves against the wind. All was still in the forest. I held my breath as we passed, but nothing gave them away. If Louis knew they were hidden in the forest, he made no gesture, and his position on the horse didn’t change.

As soon as we were down the road many meters, I let out my breath. The other Gypsy encampments weren’t hard to find. Some wagons had pulled off to the side of the road to rest. We rode up to them, pointed, remained mounted, and commanded the Gypsies follow us.

“Come with us!” I saw some of the men and boys slip away, but I didn’t get off my horse to go after them. I didn’t want to run through brambles and bushes in a place my horse couldn’t go. We let them escape and contented ourselves with the women, children, and the old Gypsies. If they recognized me, they made no indication. I felt ashamed making the Gypsies walk back to town to be imprisoned in the cold, ramshackle barracks.

When we returned with our prisoners, the commander looked over the Gypsies. The prisoners’ eyes were blank, but others showed their distrust and hatred, eyes rimmed with red and noses flaring.

“Well done. Is this all?”

“Oui, the rest have left the area,” I said.

The lieutenant didn’t look convinced of my declaration as guards dragged the prisoners behind the fence into the barracks as we rode back to the stable to care for our mounts.

“Dreadful business,” Louis said. “Just old women and children. Bah! My own grandmother could have done that.”

I remained quiet, my mind working on how to get Chaton’s family to the limestone cave by the Loire without attracting attention. I would have to guide them one at a time along the narrow path to the cave. I hoped I would have enough time to get them all hidden away.

****

Later during the thick, velvet curtain of night, after the cadets were bedding down for the evening, I lay still and quiet on my cot, feigning sleep, listening for any sound besides the scampering of mouse feet and the creaking of the cots as someone shifted.

At last, I heard the church tower chime the midnight hour, and eased off my cot and crept toward the latrines. I had hidden clothes in the cupboard in preparation for leaving. I dressed and left.

I saw their huddled forms against the dark backdrop of the city, mainly quiet at this hour. An occasional light showed, filtered through the trees and other buildings. A lonely dog barked at the moon.

“Come,” I said softly, looking around for any unusual sounds or activities, but all was calm. “One at a time.”

“I’ll go first,” Chaton’s father whispered.

They each carried a bundle of clothing and food.

I guided him along the narrow expanse between the water and the cliffs, toward the farthest cave.

When we arrived, I pushed aside the brush hiding the opening and motioned for Chaton’s father to follow me inside. Once inside, Chaton’s father produced a candle and lit it so light danced over the walls.

“Bah! Such a smell,” Chaton’s father said.

I remembered the peculiar vinegar and eggs smells of the caves from my youth. Not a pleasant place to stay, but Chaton’s family would be safe here, if they could endure the odor.

I left Chaton’s father in the cave and went back to guide the rest.

“What is that horrible smell?” Chaton whispered when she arrived, waving her hand under her nose to dissipate the odor.

“Limestone,” I whispered.

Chaton looked around and touched the walls as she circled. Her shadow moved in and out of the candlelight flicker. “We can make do here, Mama?”

Her mother, a silent woman, shook her head and placed her bundle on the floor.

Good, I thought, they would be safe. “I will come when I can and bring food.”

They had bread, hard cheese, apples, and other assorted bundles of food.

“I must go,” I said after hearing the bell toll three o’clock, and eased toward the entrance.

“Thank you, Jean Claude,” Chaton said, following me to the entrance. She reached up and gave me a kiss, whispery and delicate, before I slipped through the opening and replaced the brush covering before creeping back to school. The townspeople were wrong about the Gypsies. They weren’t the rumored wicked, bad people whispered about in the village. My hand had healed with the balm from Chaton’s mother. The Gypsies chose to live their life differently. But was different bad and evil?