The cobblestones of the courtyard were rough. When the servants threw him down, Matthieu caught himself, barely, but it hurt his hands to do so. He didn't bother to protest again, knowing that it would do him no good. On the words of the Marquess he was condemned, and aristocrats like the Marquis needed no court of law.
          He saw boots approach him -- the Marquis, he guessed -- and then cried out as pain blossomed across his shoulders. The Marquis raised his arm and delivered another blow, this one falling dangerously close to his face. Matthieu cried out again, and curled his body protectively as the Marquis continued to apply whatever it was -- cane? riding crop? All he knew was that it was agonizing. Soon only one thought remained in his mind. He had to protect his hands. Without the use of his hands he could not paint, and without that he would die.
          Assuming that the Marquis did not mean to kill him here under the blue sky.
          There was a lull in the blows. Matthieu did not notice at first; his entire body was on fire, moans and cold tears coursed from him. But eventually what he heard penetrated the pain. Laughter.
          "He doesn't even try to protect his face. What's wrong with the boy?"
          "I think he is trying to keep his hands safe, sir. He paints, after all, sir."
          More laughter. "Make him hold out his hands."
          Panicked, Matthieu struggled against the strong hands that grabbed his arms. It was a futile effort. One good hit on his back put him on the edge of unconsciousness, and the servant easily stretched his arms out onto the rough cobblestones.
          One hit across the back of his hands flung him back into consciousness. He saw the black leather of a riding crop, saw the blood welling in its tracks, and then the sharp pain coursed through him.
          "No! No, sir, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry"
          It didn't matter how much he begged. The blows rained down. Blessedly, he lost conscious after
only a few of them.
        It hurt. The stones under him were uneven and hard, the rough edges pressing into his skin. He tried to move, but when he did agony shot through him. Gasping, he closed his eyes. Tears welled up behind his eyelids, and all he could do was lie there.
          Finally he summoned up the courage to move again. He opened his eyes and raised his head. The first thing he saw was his hands, covered in blood. He tried to flex his fingers, and that simple action hurt so much that he cried out.
          He could not stay where he was. He did not know if the Marquis had intended for him to live or not, but the thought of staying to encounter the man again Matthieu knew that he had to get up, had to leave, or perhaps he never would. Putting no weight on his hands, he forced himself to sit up, fighting for every inch against the agony that was so close to overwhelming him.
          It took him many minutes just to stand, and once he was up a wave of dizziness nearly brought him back down. Fumbling a few steps sideways he leaned against a tree. But that hurt him too, and he recoiled as if burned. The only part of him that didn't have strike marks splitting the skin was the soles of his feet.
          There were no servants in sight. No people at all, in fact. The only noise he heard in this aristocratic corner of Paris was the singing of birds. It was a sound he would normally enjoy, but now Now all he could think of was getting to safety.
          He limped to the gates and struggled to slide back the bar without the use of his hands. It hurt to use his wrists, but to use his hands would be pure agony. He could only thank fate that his master's studio was not too far removed from this little lush section of manors.
          He had to stop more than once on his limping pilgrimage, when the pain and dizziness overcame him. Matthieu knew that he could ill afford to collapse again. He might be left on the streets, and the nights were cold. And his parents would be so worried. So he tried his best to ignore the pain, ignore the people who stared at him, and tried his best to focus on the simple process of putting one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other.
          And there it was. The setting sun reflecting with orange light off the windows, the door open and inviting. Tears staining his cheeks, he stumbled forward into the sanctuary of what had become his second home.
          He heard murmurs and exclamations as he crossed the threshold, but as he faltered and then fell to his knees he closed his eyes and could not see who was there. All he knew was that he was finally safe.
          "Bonacieux! What are you doing here?"
          It was his teacher's voice that cut through his pain. But it was not the kind voice he remembered, nor the compassionate voice he needed. Accusatory. Angry. Matthieu looked up, confused.
          Frérard  loomed over him. "How dare you show your face here? Do you wish to ruin me? You're a disgrace. Now get out!"
          All Matthieu could do was gape at him, even has he pointed at the door. "Mais non, monsieur, it was not my fault," he whispered. His throat was so stripped and dry that it was near impossible to speak.
          "Out! Get out!" Frérard  grabbed his arm and wrenched him to his feet.
          His sight went black, and he barely kept his desperate hold on consciousness as his teacher flung him back out into the streets. By the time he struggled up to his knees the door was slammed shut.
          Matthieu stared at it wordlessly, the betrayal shocking him into a dazed, helpless state. Workers on their way home walked around him; last-minute shoppers stepped away from him, whispering. He noticed none of it. All he saw was the closed door. Frérard  was cutting him off, his future ripped away. What was he to do now? Unwillingly he looked at his hands. Cut. Bloody. Dirty. He started to sob.
          Carriage wheels passed, the stomping of hooves. He ignored them. He couldn't think. His world, once so certain, was now black chaos.
          "Matthieu? Is that you, boy?" The voice was rough but somehow familiar. He ignored it.
          "Bon Dieu, it is you." There were hands on his shoulders. He moaned at the touch, which just shot more fire through his already overtaxed senses. Looking up, he saw a familiar face. Rough black hair, trimmed beard, a fierce beak of a nose. As horses pawed the street behind him, Matthieu finally realized who it was.
          "Benard?" The man drove a wagon, transporting goods between Parisian stores. His parents... he knew the man through his parents.
          "Come, boy, let's get you home."
          Surprisingly gentle arms picked him up and set him on some blankets in the empty floor of the wagon. It still hurt. He rolled onto his stomach, one of the only place the Marquis had not beat him. Even so, the rough journey over cobblestone, then rutted dirt streets sent him quickly into unconsciousness.
To be continued....