Circus

This morning Etienne Rameau returned from his morning scouring of the surrounding flora and undergrowth of our newly acquired asylum with the elated mien of a man somehow rewarded by the adventitious benevolence of Canaan. His usually staunch appearance, at this juncture, betrayed a certain mischievous infantine mirth.

"Boys, the circus is in town" he gleefully exclaimed.

Upon hearing such news, Gautier D'Alsace allowed his mouth to drop open to an unnaturally capacious breadth. His predictably present cigarette dangled precariously from his lower lip, and suddenly, with suicidal zeal, plunged itself into the abyss of woodland chapparal. One can only assume that this flagrant disregard for the sanctity of rolled tobacco divulges Monsieur D'Alsace's esteemed regard for the spectacle of the circus arts.

Glancing at Monsieur Riesling and Monsieur Ives who were in similar states of fish-like wonder, staring at Monsieur Rameau's ridiculous visage, coveting the inviolable erudition he now seemed to posess for his providential discovery, I realized for that moment I had completely lost command of the Infantry.

In furious impetuosity I pegged a nearby pebble at Etienne's audacious mug, only to miss entirely. My message however was quite clear and the timorous glances that now settled upon my guilty character were encroaching my command and authority to further inadmissable degrees.

"No circus!" I declared with dictatorial imperiousness.

The collective sigh of the Infantry was acutely pitiful, as though the last refuge of hope for jubilance in this invidious world was purloined from their scant hands. Monsieur D'Alsace lit another cigarette in plenary surrender to his interminable dysphoria. Monsieur Riesling returned to foraging through the moss of the riverbank (an entirely useless activity, I had earlier exclaimed, but with little heed from the decorated bastard). Monsieur Ives simply stared at me with the umbrage of sedition.

Rameau maintained his ridiculous grin, despite the overwhelming melancholy that now plagued our bivouac. Upon further interrogation it became clear that Rameau's vibrancy had very little to do with the mere presence of the circus in Rocamadour; his increasingly disquieting mirth was much more closely related to the potential for mischief.

Rameau reached back into his pocket and removed a slightly moistened parchment, his grin widening with each deliberately contemplative gesture he exacted before our utter befuddlement.

"I found this on a tree not far from this very spot as I was wandering, and I think you might be interested, I know you might be interested, I know you will be interested, I can already tell you're interested, to see the contents of this roll of paper I have in my hand" declared Rameau with the cloying ardency of a street urchin receiving a shiny centime.

As he unrolled the parchment, displaying the anticipated caprioling of crudely drawn acrobats and trapeze artists, swathed in all manners of garish colours and bawdy attire, at first little indication seemed to palliate Rameau's disconcerting fervor. When, all of a sudden, and you shall applaud Oh Sons of Saul, the words leapt forward like the paradisaical effulgence of a thousand exploding suns, and crawled down the length of my spine as the capricious centipede would wander on the delicate folds of flesh that course the length of my back, only to be swept into a maelstrom of pleasure by the concupiscent avarice of a dozen pilfering trollops, to be pampered and honoured in every regard for the rest of eternity. My response was similar to this, not exactly the same, but the only comparison I can muster with the limited elbowroom that language affords a rhapsodist such as myself.

Written in gold lettering resembling the script of the ancient bibles resting in the catacombs of a cathedral:

In honour of the true and gallant service of the Church of Notre Dame of Rocamadour, Le Cirque de L'Athee shall entertain and delight the people of Rocamadour for one evening only.

The date inscribed on the poster is tomorrow night, and the distraction this affords us can only be the gentle gift of the heavens.

The Madonna is ours. (Figuratively)