Failure

As the rarest of occurrences in the licensed activities of the Infantry, it is with the greatest of shame and with profoundest aching of the ventricles of my blood siphoning chambers, to admit that our brethren has failed, most decidedly, in the efforts of our mission of sacrilegious thievery.

No, the madonna is not ours, nor are we graced with success in our plan to establish ourselves as the most notorious of rebels, the quintessential brigands, insurrectionary paradigms, and thieves to be honoured for our incomparable panache.

We were well met at the hour of our Lord (that being 11 hours past noon) the penultimate point prior to the shadowy approach of the witching hour, well met indeed.

We met at said hour with smiles in our hearts and mischief on our mind. Etienne Rameau commented that "Rascality is the gift of the Gods". We all offered our affirmations with manic vehemence, a chorus of asseveration echoing the sentiments of the heavens (surely), aside from Gautier D'Alsace who as you'll recall has long since been dragooned into silence. Silence being a relative term as he certainly vocalised what we assumed was his alliance with our machination in the form of monosyllabic grunts. The smile on his face betrayed any questionable motive he may have been harboring, leaving no doubt of his infallible loyalty to our cause.

I have met many a man who could discourse on the genius of Voltaire for hours, and still never convince me of their goodness with language, and yet Monsieur D'Alsace denied of such convenience of speech retains dignity and honesty merely with the grace of his actions and the glint of his countenance.

Upon the Plateau de St. Michel we appeared from the shadows of wattle and daub, cloaked in the savage greens of the Black Forest of Baden-Wurttemberg, the church of Notre Dame genuflecting her obeisances to the slightly darkened clouds of the night canopy, pinpricked with stars. Thibault commented "Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?" Honouring the late Francois Villon (our commandant from beyond the grave) and his celebration of those bound and drawn to the gibbet, the sorrowed disciples of the gallows.

"Oui, Thibault" I muttered as we approached the church.

Our plan:
Gautier enters the church and in his inability to express any semblance of human speech one of the mendicant friars of the monastic community will surely assume his need for sanctuary and in his altruistic mood care for the needs of the piteous.

In his distraction Frayne, Etienne, Thibault, and myself club said friar over the head with some blunt object, find the carving of the Black Madonna and vanish, inconspicuously into the dark embrace of the night.

A plan worthy of applause and praise, the true gift of thieves.

Gautier made his entrance as planned. As he opened the doors of the church, we all felt our hearts recollect the rataplan of the drums of Sidi Bel Abbes, the Mecca of the Foreign Legion; our rudimentary rebellion ironically being precipitated by the onslaught of memories from those sordid days.

As we heard Gautier through the door mumbling syllables of eloquent distress and the subsequent saccharine replies of another, we counted to one hundred and burst through the doors of the sacred vestibule of the Black Madonna. Much to our dismay Gautier was not talking to a gentle ascetic of the male persuasion, but in fact the Mother Superior of Notre Dame.

Frayne elbowed me in the ribs, exclaiming "Punch her in the face". I refrained.

Etienne pulled a small wooden club from his cloak and raised it to strike the unsuspecting nun upon the cranial belfry, however she was less unsuspecting than we had imagined and immediately shot Monsieur Rameau in the foot with her as of yet hidden French Navy issue pistol. She proceeded to club Monsieur Riesling on the head with the butt of her pistol for suggesting I punch a woman of the cloth. I decided to take her side, admittedly it would have been wrong to harm such a fine, upstanding servant of God. For some unknown reason Frayne continued to repeat the words "Vous etes une putain!" in my general direction.

Suddenly a horde of nuns came running from the cloisters armed to the teeth with all manners of medieval weaponry, cutlasses, and firearms. Perhaps in the future to avoid such missteps, reeking of an ill-preparedness uncharacteristic of the Infantry, we should stake out the forces of the enemy, or at least bring a gatling gun. Never again shall we undertake such a foible as unflattering as the ill-fated siege of Notre Dame of Rocamadour.

I cried to the heavens, "Retraite!"

Etienne Rameau had long since left the church and was bathing his wounded appendage in the fountain of the Plateau of St. Michel. Thibault Ives dodging the jeopardous slash of a Sister's broadsword, managed to lift Etienne onto his shoulders and proceed away from the church with unbridled promptitude.

I was able to pull Frayne from the perpetual downward blows of the Mother Superior's nocent fists, and we galloped with enviable adroitness as far as the city gates before we rested. Fortunately we were able to meet Monsieur Ives and Monsieur Rameau with relative ease, as the cries of the latter were discernible even to the least auricular of Rocamadour's residents.

As related to us many hours later, Monsieur D'Alsace remained at the church struck to palpable consternation by the admirable aegis of Notre Dame exacted by the 3 score nuns of the monastery (one must point out that he wrote out this account in rather scrawled and frantic fear with a nub of charcoal). Apparently after the dust of the siege had settled the Mother Superior turned to Gautier and simply exclaimed "Will you still be needing sanctuary, Oh child of Adam?"

Monsieur D'Alsace shook his head and fainted. He awoke in the fountain outside the church.

Disaster. But perhaps our intentions should shift as we attempt to salvage what remains of Monsieur Rameau's foot. We shall allow ourselves a few days of recovery as we determine a plan of attack that would befit a suitable revenge upon the nuns of Notre Dame.

Oh God, give us guidance. Or at least some food.