Harlequins

If one contemplates too deeply the boon of the arrival of le Cirque de L'Athee, the ensuing bafflement will cause high degrees of anxiety and further confusion. But, imagine dear friends, a banquet held in your honour, or stretch the imagination to entertain the possibility of weddings, funerals, and birthday parties, what is the common bond? The consistent facet of all convivialities is the presence, begrudgingly or not, of the honouree (aside from the few cases of posthumous memorialization). Without further investigation one sees quite clearly why the performance in honour of the nuns of Notre Dame would be a grand benefaction for the Infantry: noone would be in residence to impede our filching of the Black Madonna.

We left our rustic homestead at the appointed hour of commencement for the circus, and entered brazenly through the gates of the town, unhindered by the thought of being recognized by one of the nuns. Firstly, we knew the circus would grant us a miraculous camouflage, and secondly, we're not scared of women (notwithstanding Monsieur Riesling's inexplicable phobia of prostitutes, but we shall address that at an appropriate opportunity).

Rocamadour was ablaze with lights and sound, a rare occurrence for this otherwise sleepy cliffside hamlet. The overabundance of carnival music was offending the night sky with its stentorious cacophony as the grubby faces of children seemed to meander in all directions, besmeared with the sugary remnants of rock sweets and honey. Bathetic families whisked about with great haste, stumbling in mawkish idiocy to behold the wonders of the circus (begging the question: what wonders?)

The Cirque de L'Athee had brought with them in customary fashion a menagerie of exotic creatures: lions from the plains of middle Africa, elephants from the white sands of Raman Reti, and English badgers (less exotic, but mildly entertaining in a pinch), displayed in magnificent gilded cages along the thoroughfares of Rocamadour. And though I confess a certain fascination with the albino Rhinoceros from Madagascar, the nauseating aroma of feculence that permeated the entire municipality left me somewhat underwhelmed and borderline qualmish.

As we passed down lane after claustrophobic lane of Rocamadour proper, having consumed a king's fill of sensory stimuli, we came into sight of the zenith of the Circus' achievements: the big top (a misnomer in almost every degree as it is merely a large canvas tent). Sprawled across the town square in all its brobdingnagian glory (that is the only word befitting such glory, read your Swift), it was attached with whaling ropes at all edges to balconies, street lamps, store fronts, pub signs, and an unfortunate tramp who had mistakenly fallen asleep on a bench the circus deemed worthy of anchoring their artistic coliseum. From inside the tarpaulin montrosity the delighted cheers of spectators witnessing the droll antics of clowns, harlequins, and the impavid displays of the acrobats and trapeze artists emanated in deafening waves.

Etienne Rameau suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, "Mon dieu".

The Mother Superior, ghastly and grim, was being escorted into the circus tent by an entourage of tumbling mimes who with each respective somersault showered her path with increasing volumes of bluebell petals. In her floral wake, the conclave of sycophantic canaries, the sisters of Notre Dame (one of them still carrying her broadsword from the other night) followed sheepishly into the den of sin. Etienne shuddered with reminiscent agony and uttered as barely more than a whisper, "Chiennes".

Moving away from the plateau of St. Michel we approached the church of Notre Dame with judicious care, hesistant to repeat our old mistakes of haste and ill-preparedness. Thibault opened the door without a creak to its old hinges and we all heaved a sigh of relief as we rested inside the sanctuary of the church, ridden with darkness, and cold to the world.

We knew that the Black Madonna rested at the head of the church, beside the altar, as a focal point of the congregation. We ambled in the darkness along the knave of the church, clasping at each other's shoulders for guidance. We allowed Thibault Ives to lead our way as he claims he has always been able to see in the dark, and given his adroit blind navigation of the church, we have no reason to doubt him.

"Elle est ici" declared Thibault, as we stopped just short of the stark silhouette of a miniature figure carved quite decidedly into the shape of a woman. As I reached out to retrieve the Madonna from her sanctified rostrum, all horrors descended upon my being and my bodily functions, as an icy hand gripped my extended fingers from the darkness. In dramatic unison, a burst of torches ignited around the church, eight in all, and I found myself staring into the meretricious make-up of a clown; a single painted tear frozen on the snow white facade of his cheek.

"The Madonna is ours, my dear boy" exclaimed the clown still clasping my arm with surprising strength. His entourage of comedic depravity, deceptively menacing in spite of their cheery make up and false noses, narrowed their distance to our coterie of thieves.

"Oh fuck off" shouted Thibault with unmistakeable loathing as he punched my captor in the throat while pinching the Madonna from the dais in one swift (not the previously mentioned embodiment) maneuver. The horde of clowns descended upon our band of merry thieves, torches ablaze, and violence on their jolly faces. But, oh my friends, the Infantry has had enough of the poor life and the downtrodden subservience of defeat, it is our moment for majesty.

We fought with the bravery of hundreds, instead of five against eight, avoiding the formidable blows of oversized shoes and polka dot gloves, and inflicting upon our humourous enemies a beating unseen since Jerubbaal, the feller of trees, vanquished the Midianites in the valley of Jezreel. But, for this evening, in the cliffs of Rocamadour, we the Infantry were the chosen, and we decimated the tribes of humour and commedia with the fury of thousands.

Gautier insisted on headbutting all his foes. Etienne went after his prey with fists of cracked thunder. Frayne, diving off a pew, tackled a retreating clown to the floor, sending himself and escaping comedian flailing into the confines of the confessional. Thibault picked up an iron wrought candelabra, and punished our attackers with merciless vigilance. I, myself, resorted to interrogating the apparent leader of this band, the tear-stroked clown who insolently seized my hands in the cloak of darkness.

With literal tears of mea culpa, the bafoon explained that quite expectedly a circus with the name 'de L'Athee' had no love for the church of Notre Dame, and had visited the town not to honour the nuns, but to coincidentally deprive them of their riches. The performance had been set up as a cunning ruse to lure the holy sisters away from their beloved treasures, while quite unbeknownst to them, the slippery foxes of the travelling troupe would lay their grubby paws upon the Black Madoona. But, we dear friends, beat them to it, and then beat them from it.

Thibault wiped blood and make-up from his firey fists, sighing that we should leave. As I glanced down the length of the church, bathed in celestial light by the kaleidoscope of stained glass that adorned the walls, Etienne, Frayne, and Gautier were already making their galant escape. Thibault handed the Black Madonna to me with proud deference, and I turned to the clowns of Le Cirque de L'Athee to exact one last reminder of our wrath.

"The Infantry have brought this asperity upon you, remember the name of this band, for if you cross us again, our vehement destruction of your very being will be colossal"

A decrepit and beaten clown in silky pink pajamas raised his hand.

"Oui, mon enfant" I said.

"What does asperity mean?" spluttered the clown with every fiber of his body aching with unhinged agony.

"Precisely. What does asperity mean?" I exclaimed, as I vanished into the night.