Ad Astra Per Aspera

Noone has said a word to Riesling since dawn, though his demeanor has led one to believe that he is perfectly content to remain silent and shuffling pebbles from their graves with his plodding feet. We wander on to Toulouse, the sour remnants of predicted catastrophe lingering on our stalwart hearts. As we awoke and began our solemn march to sanctuary, Monsieur Riesling, swathed in a colour as pale as oblivion, whispered gently as we all implored him for elucidation, "Je suis desole. Je ne sais pas ce que j'ai fait." And we have all left it at that.

The path to Toulouse is ominous and dreary, admittedly in the eye of the beholder, for I have never been one to place the creative ejaculations of the natura numina in too high an esteem. Though, if one is seduced by the gentle undulations of a cobbled stream, or the high pitched warbles of the Spring robin, then by all means lose yourself in the pastoral beauty of our whimsical stroll. All this untouched serenity merely forebodes the inevitable malevolence veiled behind the cupboard under the stairs, lurking in the dust and grime, choked and ravenous, with its beady yellow eyes gaping through the cracks in the door, waiting. In this case, it entails the unavoidable presence of our French bureaucrats pandering their wares to the unsuspecting patrons of their depravity. I vomit with uncustomary panache upon such pillage of prosperity.

Etienne Rameau has shared a little more with me in confidence about the uncle to whom we are to beg for shelter and solace. Apparently, he is no mere mortal, but a Vicomte, a royal heir (by innumerable, and probably indecipherable degrees). His name, dear friends: Donatien Pierre Arago, Le Vicomte de Auxerre.

This obviously begs the question: if Etienne's uncle is of royal lineage, then why is he not included in this illustrious pedigree? As you will recall, Etienne's father, Beaumont Arago, abandoned his family at a tender age, denouncing the name of his father, one Francois Arago. By doing so, he alienated himself from all connections with his royal heritage, as Francois was a highly regarded physicist and scientific advisor to the world, but more specifically to the French royalty. Etienne, following suit, also abandoned his family and went so far as to remove his surname 'Arago' in disgust to assume the somewhat dishonourable title of his mother's maiden name, 'Rameau'. This of course further alienated himself from the once famed prestige of his grandfather, Francois Arago.

Arago, Le Vicomte de Auxerre, however was the legitimate offspring of the famed Francois Arago, and was bestowed with all honours that should have befallen his father, after the elder died of diabetic complications in a hospice in Paris in 1853. Le Vicomte de Auxerre now in the Autumn of his life, resides in Le Chateau de Poudelay in les Petites Pyrenees, south of Toulouse. Etienne Rameau knows that his uncle will be visiting Toulouse currently, preparing for his summer jaunts with courtesans and racketeers, gamblers and cutthroats; what could be more fitting than the addition of a handful of brigand thieves.

We must maintain our high spirits and wistful attitudes however, as our recent debaucle at Notre Dame and the ensuing madness of Riesling could put a damper on our prestige should we allow it to compromise our ability to be harbingers of fear. The meeting with Le Vicomte is a most important step; money is certainly not our aim, but it quite remarkably aids our cause (in the very least in making our daily menu somewhat more palatable).

Riesling has begun to sing for lengthy stretches of our walk. The lyrics seem to consist of the ingredients of a human being, as he repeatedly references the notion of mixing bone and blood in a bowl with a dash of cynicism.

If this bout of depressive delirium maintains itself for many more days, I might have to put the wretched cur out of his misery.