When the Daydream set him on the shore, the cold sunless sky did little to cheer Armand. His feet were on his native soil again, and he could feel no joy in it, only the fierce determination–nay desperation–of his purpose. So he put his back to the safety and comfort of his only tie to England and walked inland.
After only a few miles, Armand realized one of the flaws in the accuracy of his disguise. It was not boasting to say he was reasonably fit and he could endure exertion even if he was unused to it, yet he'd never worn wooden shoes before. When Margot and he were poor in Paris, he'd run barefooted, but even the hardened calluses from that had faded over the few years of softer living and soft, leather shoes. He felt the blisters as they formed and then burst, and there wasn't anything to do for them.
He limped onward until he passed a wagon heading for the coast. The bed was filled with lumber and an armoire from some aristocrat's ransacked home, but the wagon driver wore real shoes. Armand's gaze fixed on those shoes, and he stood aside until the wagon was nearly past.
"Citizen!" he called out, careful of political etiquette in these dangerous times. The man hauled his reins and stopped, only looking at Armand curiously. "I'm on my way to Paris to find work, and I realized I need better on my feet than these. Would you sell me your shoes?" Armand was aware of how odd his request was, but it was plausible.
So a few minutes later–for the trade of his wooden clogs and a few francs–Armand acquired a pair of leather shoes. They almost fit, too. He tore strips of cloth from his spare shirt to cushion the blisters he already had.
Then he continued on his way. He hoped he wouldn't need to walk the entire way to Paris, though he realized it was entirely possible he may. Even in proper shoes, he couldn't walk very fast, though he did reach a village before full dark. He bought a plate of soup for supper, and a hank of bread for the next day, and then slept as only a lonely, exhausted man could sleep.
The sun shone more the next day, so he tried to imagine cheerful things as he followed the road. But his head filled too often with reliving those terrible days when he was last in the city of his birth. The image of Jeanne's lovely flower-like face accompanied the bitterness of regret and fear.
He'd hated leaving her behind in January, but he hated himself more. Even with the strips of cloth protecting his wounded feet, he limped badly by the time he stopped for his second night. He'd walked most of forty miles inland without yet turning south.
This was a larger town where Armand was obliged to show his papers to an official before he could visit the smaller of the two travelers' inns. He dipped quietly into the thick stew and pondered if he could afford to show enough coin to pay for a ride the rest of the way into Paris. Having it wasn't the issue but showing it was.
He ate slowly and listened to his fellow travelers. Then he paid for a half bottle of the thin watery local wine on the excuse that he needed it to sleep. His muscles ached and his feet hurt enough he wasn't lying. So sipping the wine, he listened more.
"Labor is so expensive in Paris now. The men refuse to work unless I pay them in advance," a man complained.
"What can you do, Remy? Unload the wagon yourself?"
The old man shrugged, and Armand studied him from behind his bottle. Then he made a decision. He pushed back his bench and crossed the room to where the men were talking. "I can help you, I think, citizen," he said.
They stared at him. Armand pointed back to where his empty plate and half-finished bottle stood on the table. "I overheard. Couldn't help it. I'm on my way to Paris. If you give me a ride, I'll unload your wagon for you when we get there."
The weight of their eyes was uncomfortable as they scrutinized him. He was small, but he knew he didn't look weak or ill. He resisted the urge to change his posture or expression. Presently, the second man chuckled.
"What do you think, Remy? Want to take this young vagabond with you?"
At that Armand straightened his shoulders and let them see the fire in his eyes. "I am an honest citizen going to Paris to find work, not a vagabond."
"As if there is more there than elsewhere."
He shrugged in the way only a native-born Frenchman could do, that small twitch of the shoulder that conveyed indifference. "I am going nonetheless."
"Why not?" Remy said. "No funny business. You just ride quiet and guard the wagon at night."
Armand nodded in agreement, knowing he had less to bargain with than the old man did. They arranged to meet in the morning before dawn, and he took what remained of his wine up to his room. The wine, taken in large gulps as an anesthetic, helped soothe Armand's aching muscles and raw feet, so he slept better than the night before.
A laden wagon wasn't that much faster than a man, but Armand wouldn't be on his feet the entire time. The wagon was full of winter cabbages and a few onions. Again, not the most comfortable of beds at night but it would be worth it not to walk. Traveling in this way with the taciturn-truth to be told, grouchy-farmer brought them to the gates of Paris by the end of the week. A thin, icy rain had plagued them since the night before.
Old Remy, who valued his cargo more than his new passenger, had struck Armand when the he was too slow covering the vegetables at the start of the rain. The younger man's natural anger at the abuse showed through, completely unfeigned, but the restraint of a man dependent on the goodwill of another rankled both Armand and the man he pretended to be.
"Now, look here, Girard," Remy said, "you mustn't take that attitude with me," when he saw Armand's clenched fists and white face.
"Then keep your hands off me, good citizen," Armand retorted and kicked his new shoes against the wheel of the wagon to dislodge the new mud. He hoped it would look a little dangerous and not boyish or nervous. "We made an agreement. That doesn't give you the right to play the aristo with me."
That shut him up, even though Armand hated to say it, because it implied he would denounce him, which he'd never do to any man, even were he to beat him bloody. Armand had been clever enough along the way to let Remy see the scars on his back. When he asked, he told him quite truthfully that an aristo had ordered him thrashed. Exact identities and eventual shameful fates he left unsaid. A few scars had never been worth the lives of an entire family.
Armand struggled not to take back his words. Remy must've glimpsed some of the inner turmoil, for he drew back and almost smiled. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
Quite sincerely, Armand muttered, "I would not want to, but no man lays hands on me that way." Letting his pride close about him, Armand lifted his chin. Remy desisted, though he may not have been entirely convinced.
He helped Armand cover the now very wet vegetables, then gave him a hand-up back onto the wagon seat. That night he bought a bottle of wine and shared it with Armand, who accepted it as a form of apology. He could not, however, relax his guard over this tongue. For the rest of the trip, Armand was careful to keep Remy's bonhomie stoked.