This first battle, the Germans won. Given that our commander's intelligence is essential to the Entente's tactics and strategies, Madame's capture has provided the other side quite a great advantage. It was a lamentable loss, but we didn't mind much, because a war wasn't won on one battle alone.
To compensate for our worrisome week, the beldame offers to help with fresh breakfast. We've never tasted Madame's cooking, it's understandable we're excited, even more so that we... aptly... imagine our own mothers' cuisines, which are heavenly in many senses of the word.
After this breakfast, we, together, swear we would let her into the kitchen over our dead bodies next time.
Madame said she would be trying to make some English curry, a favourite of the posh up north, for us. As the brigade's cooks would testify after tasting that abomination of a curry, the stewed meat and onion were from our tinned rations, and the seasonings were... lethal. Seeing how competent a gourmand she is, we've definitely committed a fatal mistake in assuming she knows how to combine spices. The thing about wartime rationing, which means we didn't have access to those so-called proper spices, makes the fact more excruciatingly miserable. As decent and cultured Frenchmen (although most of us cavalrymen came from peasant backgrounds), we unanimously agree about not letting Madame cook again, lest we have to taste that salty and pungently horrendous curry.
There's a saving grace however, Madame does have a very refined palate, it's just that... she doesn't have those skilful hands and intuition of a cook. She knows how the dish is supposed to taste, and she knows which spice possesses which flavour, but she has little clue of how to combine the flavours together. Madame can make fantastic afternoon tea and bites, though. Sweets must've been her favourite hobby.
I got my first letter from home to-day. They delivered it straight to my seat, while I was trying to muster the last bit of my courage to down that curry dish Madame cooked up. The envelope has "from Paul Vignon to Paul Vignon", must've been my father's. Papa does love making it well known that he named his only son after himself. Uncle Henri Moutin seems to get along a little too well with my father in his youth, because they literally have the same idea. My cousin, a fighter pilot, is also named Henri Moutin. Our mothers were twins, and we do look a little akin to each other. I haven't seen him for years, but I do remember he was a bit annoying when we were still wee brats. I won't say I was the better boy in the bunch either, because I know (and everyone knows) I'm most certainly not.
Papa wrote in the letter that the house and the neighbourhood were a little too quiet these days, since the boys my age all had gone into the war. The baker's youngest son Julien, that smarty older brother of the bunch who always got perfect marks, had become a military doctor; it's kind of predicted, he was terribly good at medicine and even got a scholarship to Paris for his doctorate. We've always admired him ever since we were still little boys. Hope I may encounter him somewhere on the battlefield someday. Also, in the letter, Papa wrote that Mum had been knitting a scarf for me, because winter was nigh, but she hadn't the slightest idea how to send it to me, or where I even was.
As a change of wind, we accidentally discover our commander's real name to-day. After breakfast, Madame returns to her quarters to deal with the paperwork, and I'll be going there to help (that's what adjutants are for, no?). Commanders or civilians, paperwork is a great nuisance one has no way to avoid. Because we aren't participating in any battles (or should it be "since we weren't participating in battle"?), Madame has changed into her very feminine attire (though her sense of fashion's a little old-fashioned I should say) and left all her uniform, sabre, commanding rapier and name tag laying on an armchair next to her desk. To my surprise, the words engraved on the tag did not spell out "Annatoire de Beaudelaire" or anything like that. She takes a brief break from the pile of papers as she notices me eyeing her stuff.
"Curious about something, Monsieur Adjutant?"
"Pardon me for peeking at your thing, Madame, but... did someone drop their name tag while visiting you to-day?"
"No, I have no guests to-day," said the beldame, "And yes, I have two name tags."
I'm taken aback for a slight moment, it seems like Madame de Beaudelaire could, somehow, read my mind.
"But this is a first lieutenant in Britain's forces."
"Just for reconnaissance and some clerical purposes, like an other identity you can safely and temporarily fall back in cases situations got hairy but you manage to keep your life and the mission cannot be aborted", says the beldame as smooth as though she's been saying it for the umpteenth time.
"Won't any curious commoner suspect that a first lieutenant amongst them could be nonexistent, ma'am, especially those sergeants in charge with communications and the likes, not counting the medics?"
"No they won't," replies she with much confidence, "I can bet my brigadier's insignia and commanding sabre that even the Queen of Sweden knows the person on this name tag."
"How about your actual name tag, Madame?"
I gulp down a big mouth of air as Madame pauses and squints at me with greater annoyance than my mother's when the boys stole her newly washed bedsheets to build make-believe fortress.
"Is Annatoire de Beaudelaire not sufficient, though it's a nom de guerre as you probably have already known?"
"Well, Madame, pardon me for prying, but as your adjutant I should be able to know your name— actual name I mean— in case you, um, are unavailable somehow and I your adjutant have to take the helm, including managing paperworks..."
Suddenly she puts down the pen, resting her chin on her weaved hands and just listening very attentively at me.
"Is... anything the matter, Madame?"
"Nothing, it's just... I feel odd somebody would ever ask. I've lived too long under another name that even my closest acquaintances and relatives would have a hard time recalling my birth one..." the old dame lets out a long sigh, then continues "Do you recall your mum telling any story about some little princess in the tower? Most likely mine is the same as hers."
I'm a little baffled here because of the mere realisation that the beldame knows there existed such a story. My memory didn't register her likeness in any place and any time in my past, so... how on earth she knows that! The aforementioned little princess in the tower was called Françoise, who at the end was taken out of the tower by an angel and lived a much better life in the town down below.
"Madame Françoise de Beaudelaire."
"So my suspicion was correct." She seems to smile.
"You suspected... what, Madame?"
"Oh, nothing. You guessed correctly, I mean. Next time when I am available around your day off and you have a fancy to visit your home, could you please kindly let me tag along?"
That's the strangest request I've ever heard in my life, and the strangest circumstance where I have learnt somebody's name.