Chapter Text
Whew! That had been a close one.
Claudel hunkered down between some barrels in a back alley behind Madame Elise's. No one would find him here. No one ever came looking here. He curled his small self into a round corner between a barrel and a stone wall, and waited to catch his breath.
The tall Scotsman had nearly captured him. Him! Claudel, who was faster and sneakier than all the other boys on Rue Pelletier! He had honed his pickpocketing skills under the training of Henri himself – and Henri was fifteen! He lived by his wits and slept in stairwells, and was more a king to Claudel than anyone up at the Palace would ever be. And even with such training, he had nearly been caught!
The Scotsman was quicker than Claudel had thought. Most men of such height were slow, especially when they had been drinking Madame Elise's brandy. But either he had not been drinking quite as much as Claudel thought, or the big man had a sturdier stomach for wine than he had ever seen before. Thinking back, he had not approached him nearly as carefully as he ought. And he had only managed one pocket before the flaming-haired giant was giving roaring, angry pursuit.
He hadn't even looked at the fruits of his labours yet. . .
Slowly, Claudel opened his clenched and trembling fist. Three coins had embedded themselves in his palm – a few sou, nothing remarkable. Though good for a piece of meat pie and a wedge of cheese - and something better to drink than small ale too. Next to them were a few twisted and crumpled fragments of paper, scrawled over with words in a language Claudel did not speak. Still, perhaps worth something to somebody.
Last, there was an absurdity. A small snake, carved out of wood. The letters S-A-W-N-E-Y were cut deep into its belly. It was not a word that meant anything to Claudel. For a moment, he thought to throw it aside. But then, he thought, why should such a man as that red-faced giant have such a thing about him? It might have some meaning. Some value he, Claudel, could not fathom, but was there nonetheless.
He shrugged, and put all but one sou away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Like all small boys, or so he supposed, there was a fairly constant gnawing in his stomach, and there was no reason he needed to fight and claw for his supper tonight. Always, he preferred to pay when he could. He did not so much wish to steal as he found it the only way to be sure of eating at least four or five days out of every seven. When there was money to be had he did not spend it always on wine like the other boys did, but rather made friends with the nearby baker's and butcher's boys, ingratiating himself with the proprietors whenever he could, so that when the lean days came – and they always did – then a pleading, hungry look was all it would take for a few scraps of bread, or a few offcuts of meat to be thrown his way. Since he had paid before, they did not drive him away as a thief. Some of the dainties too, from Madame Elise's would always be his for the taking. But candied almonds and sugared grapes never eased the gnawing, or not well, in any case.
A sausage, he thought, flipping the sou in his hand, a sausage, and a bowl of good soup. A loaf of the white bread, and-
“There ye are, ye wee gomeral!”
A long-fingered, wiry hand had Claudel's wrist in a vice grip before he could dart away. . .