It was all Campy could do to keep from grabbing his bike and taking off. Damn be these French and their queer ways. Damn to the village and its idiots for not standing on their own and confront the De Claudes. All he wanted was to ride the famous De Rosa that stood now in front of him as he held a cleaning rag clutched in his hand. He wasn't even allowed to repair his De Rosa, only to wipe the filth from its weary frame.
With a loving hand, he began to gently ease the dirt off the bright gleam of the finish. It seemed to Campy that the De Rosa knew he was there, that the bike held still for him as his hand brushed away cakes of grime. He wanted to comfort this famous steed in its hour of great need. To pay homage to the once renowned flash of blue that whisked by towns and country.
Campy gently moved the bike to lay against him as he reached over to clean the tubing's other side. He felt the metal rest on him to take its burden of labor into safe harbor. And as Campy softly brushed the dirt and then, with a gentle hand, wipe the grime away with warm water and soap, a tear fell to the floor. The only tear Campy vowed to shed until Jean de Claude was vanquished and his reign of terror finished.
"I will have my day." Campy snorted.
"What was that you said? You're tired? Well, what kind of bike mechanic would you make if you couldn't handle a little dirt?" Michel quipped and with it a wink and bit of stiff upper lip to say not to give us away.
Campy coughed to rid his throat and clear his mind. Now is not the time for sentiment, he thought. It was a time to think and form a new plan, now that he was inside the estate of the De Claudes. Campy took a look around, at the men playing cards, the comings and goings at the estate's entrance and looked for a sign of weakness in this fortress of evil. He would find it, if just a mouse hole, he would find it.
To be continued....
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