Mission

As you now have a vague understanding of the inner workings, dilletante opinions, and heroic perturbations of The Infantry, you consequently and necessarily must regard our cause with rapacious celerity of wit, and less with the cavalier whimsy of a consumptive urchin. Forgive the harshness of phrase, but the time has arrived for movement and contention, and a strict adherence to our vision, and avoidance of the alluring tangle of ease and luxury afforded by pardon from our supposed government.

Our Mission, in short (but certainly not limited to) transpires in the cavernous machinery of our minds, as follows:

- Offend; in format and form all practitioners and proponents of the French ruling class, as we have been offended by their iniquitous coercion of our lives.

- Demand; retribution for years spent serving a malicious and entirely unhumorous army in the salty sands of the Sahara, where the nightly menu consisted of various styles of preparing the indiginous jerboa (akin to a mouse of squirrel), where the unearthly potential for contemplation of mass suicide was perpetual, where a man's willingness to wander into the realms of questionable evening companionship was severely compromised on one or two occasions.

- Deny; the icy hold the French riche have over lauded money and prestige. Our thievery will be put to exemplary use, as we remove such items that not only allow people's esteemed regard as an avid partner of the elite, but partially guarantee such repugnant acclamation. For example, should we ever be granted such a fortuitous opportunity, we shall misappropriate the very crown from the pate of our discommodious king, and leave him in the very shambles he begets, denied of his inestimable symbol.

- Disquiet; the very foundations of the earth by complete and utter disregard for the well-being of anyone other than ourselves. Even our loved ones are not free from the fear we shall smite upon the face of France. Fearful as eidolon and shade, we shall carve a doorway to the unpleasantries of darkness, winter, and the wearied coils of the barren roads. We are unaware of how we shall do this at present, but dressing up like ghosts in worn and tattered sheets and jumping out of dark corners seems to be the most profitable consensus.

. . . Our first mission begins tonight, here in Rocamadour.

We shall steal the Black Madonna carving from the church of Notre Dame de Rocamadour off the Plateau of St. Michel, where the fragmented sword of Charlemagne's paladin, Roland, rests in fragments, the holy Durendal. The Black Madonna of this church was said to be carved by St. Amadour, witness to the matyrdom of St. Paul and St. Peter, spouse of St. Veronica, the gentle soul who cleansed the Saviour's face on his long struggle to Calvary.

This carving holds Rocamadour in sway, our reclamation of this holy artifact evokes a staging ground for our dramatic reclamation of the entire canton of Gramat, the whole scope of the arrondisement of Gourdon, every inch of the Lot departement, and in time, my dear brothers in arms, the farthest touch and spindly influence of France . . .

Let us rest, for tonight we move.

Aidan Jareth

And now the burden falls upon myself to uncover the deliberate and cataclysmic workings of none other than myself. Having never felt particularly comfortable with writing about my own affairs in the third person (lingering too far into the realms of pretension) and having never eased my discernment for the inappropriateness of writing about my oft caustic life in the first person (wandering to closely to arrogance), I shall venture into fairly worrisome territory and for the moment pretend to be someone else entirely upon whom the onus of documenting my life has befallen.

Let's all pretend that my name is Michel Renoir.

Despite this rather osequious charade, please do not believe for a moment that all the facts contained herein are anything but gospel. My motives are merely to retain the shreds of dignified humility that have graced my scarred cadaver of a life. After all, I have no purpose for lies any longer, and the militant stand of The Infantry is to be pure upholders of the honest truth.

. . . I shall begin. Remember, Michel Renoir is writing these words, who is actually me, but a consciousness removed from myself to communicate with honesty the indiscriminate truth about me from the perspective of another.

Aidan Jareth was born in the town of Manosque in the Durance river plain.

Raised by cabaret performers who were all disciples of Rodolphe Salis, who as you'll recall was the founder of the infamous Montmatre establishment renowned throughout France, Le Chat Noir. Admittedly noone in the troupe of Manosque had ever met Monsieur Salis or even travelled as far as Paris, but through letters and hearsay they had developed their own style of cabaret performance unrivaled any where throughout Europe. The troupe was known as Les Belles Personnes.

Aidan Jareth was never aware of the identity of his real parents as he had been left outside the city gate of Manosque, the Porte de La Saunerie, at an early age. As a cruel joke Monsieur Jareth's parents had left inside the poor baby's weaved basket of reed and twine, along with Aidan, a small package of salt. The Porte de La Saunerie was also known as the salt gate, as it was here that historically citizens of Manosque were obliged to pay the rather unpopular salt tax. Perhaps one can applaud Aidan's parents for their mischievous sense of humour, but perhaps more appropriately one should chastise them (albeit by prayer to divine omniscience) for deleterious and indecerous cruelty.

Thankfully Monsieur Jareth was found by Les Belles Personnes, and after a fine meal of salted pork (the package of salt was somewhat bittersweet), the infamous troupe set about a plan to raise the abandoned bastard child.

The troupe was a quintet, much like the honourable battalion of the chivalrous Infantry that Monsieur Jareth would later found, much to the chagrin of the entire French bureaucracy. There was one woman in the troupe but she had far surpassed the milky age of child rearing, and the troupe had to therefore resort to stealing milk from the local dairy farms. It is a wonder that the mere contemplation of a cow's underbelly causes Monsieur Jareth severe anxiety.

Auguste Maintenant was the leader of Les Belles Personnes. His falsetto was highly regarded and his impersonations of various barnyard animals were an indomitable hit, should they have been performed in any of the Parisian theatres, though unfortunately the performances of the troupe were relegated to shows outside the Porte de La Saunerie, or the north side of town outside the Porte du Soubeyran.

Agathe Plustard, was the female presence within the troupe, though given her quite formidable baritone vocal stylings and her voluminous beard, many, quite understandably, mistook her for a man. Noone was really aware of Madame Plustard's age, though rumour had it that she stood between two or three hundred years old, and given her mumblings regarding the edict of Fontainebleau and the outlawing of Protestantism in France, and her inability to forgive Louis XIV, this hypothesis was somewhat believable.

Alexandre Aujourdhui, Dominique Demain, and Guillaume Toujours made up the rest of the troupe. Alexandre was famous for his remarkble contortions. On a good day he could manage to get his right leg over his head, though it was invariably quite difficult to remove him from this position should he accomplish this incredible feat. Dominique was the comedian of the troupe, and his punchlines were completed on his own complex theory "That unfunny is the new method of comedy, and when all else fails bang furniture". Guillaume was the musician, who never really allowed his personality to shine besides capping off every performance after finishing his final phrasings on the piano with a bellow from the depth of his soul that quite inexplicably always remained "Je deteste ma vie".

How Monsieur Jareth escaped his early childhood without disease, injury, or further abandonment is unknown to anyone other than Les Belles Personnes, who have all since died or gone completely mad from various questionable practices and addictions to absinthe and opium.

Aidan Jareth in his early teens became the dancer for the troupe and given his somewhat wiry stature and flexible limbs his performances were nothing short of entrancing. Monsieur Jareth was quite happy to soft step his way through the gates of St. Peter, as the cabaret life and a healthy dose of saltwater cod were all this skeleton limbs demanded.

However, the shadowy denouement of this epoch remained straining in the wings. The town of Manosque was one of the first staging grounds for the new infiltration of the French Legion's recruitment efforts, and in typical nefarious form the government issued new commands to promote the illegality of cabaret performances outside any officially sanctioned performance space. Les Belles Personnes was no more, and as Monsieur Jareth had no identity papers, financial support, or identifiable parentage other than the altruistic embrace of Monsieur Maintenant and Madame Plustard, the French Legion took advantage of his age and impressionable personage and recruited him to immediate deployment in the ravaging hands of North African combat.

. . . Ten years of my life (for I no longer bear the shyness of assuming a sobriquet) were spent under the cancerous whim of the Legion.

You will forgive my departure, there is more to say of Les Belles Personnes and their loving kindness, it is not correct that I give them such a brief overture, but if you reference the beginnings of this passage I fear my anger at the actions of those we mean to offend will only influence the direction of my exposition of this tale. I can tolerate many vices, notwithstanding offensive body odour, but arrogance and self-aggrandizement are not among them.

Please forgive me.

Thibault Ives

It is rare in this day and age for an individual to be entirely deprived of a sense of humour, but our dear Monsieur Ives is the quintessential example of finding not only very little, but absolutely nothing even in the slightest degree partially amusing.

Perhaps it is this unique and slightly discomfiting aspect of Thibault's distinct (lack of) personality that has made him such a foregone conclusion for candidacy in the ranks of The Infantry; his intrinsic absence of creativity and underwhelming reception to jejune hilarity skillfully eschews the potential for lost focus or compromised work ethic.

In his school days in Saint Paul-de-Vence, as one can imagine he had few friends and hordes of enemies. There is little in this world that frustrates the human sensibilities more than refusal to acknowledge their self-recognized wit. Thibault would dangle, as a bat, from the bars on the playground (used periodically by their physical education teacher to demand the children of France develop better upper body strength). As Monsieur Ives reputation as a non-laugher increased, his classmates need to amuse him grew with ever burgeoning asperity.

Day after day children would approach the serious and funereal visage of Thibault in hopes that their jocular anecdotes and droll raillery would shirk a smile from the seemingly frozen upper lips of Ives' countenance.

No such fortuitous luck was ever granted to the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence.

On one occasion three young girls in his school, nicknamed Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone, probably due to there conniving and unscrupulous ways, but perhaps because in reality they always seemed to enact the unequivocal desideratum of the masses, that pent up and inexpressible exigency, the guilt ridden and questionable importunity, the forbidden desire.

Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone's real names happened to be, Adele, Margaux, and Therese, and they had simultaneously come to the despicable revelation that rather than attempt to amuse Thibault all this time individuals should have been using Thibault for their amusement. After all, what is better than an individual, who despite having a rather serious demeanor, will surely bear no ill will to his own humiliation, in a similar fashion to his disregard for the humourous out pourings of the world.

In the cool hours of the morning three girls could be seen stifling giggles in the playground of the Saint Paul-de-Vence schoolhouse.

As the morning classes retreated to the playground for 15 well-regulated minutes of respite from the academic grip of geography books and arithmetic, Thibault once again took his customary spot at the pull-up bars, positioning himself with his knees holding all his weight as he dangled, blood rushing to the head, with all the seriousness of the most austere of East Asian ascetics. His staunch resilience failed to register the gelatinous residue that remained on his hands when he positioned himself upside down on the bar.

The bell for the end of the hallowed recess rang coldly across the barren plains of the playground. All the whelps of Saint Paul-de-Vence reluctantly ventured as meager sheep into the icy embrace of the classroom. Thibault remained stuck quite profoundly to the bars. One assumes the substance the three harpies had smeared across the bars was equivalent merely to a strong adhesive, but as other children ran to the open arms of their devoted parents in the afternoon, Thibault remained stuck and dangling. Thibault had made little protest to the devious trick of the girls, but inside his anger and contemplation of vengeance was burrowing deep into his expressible consciousness.

After calling the local blacksmith and the town fire brigade Thibault was finally removed from his perch of contemplation, much to the amusement of the entire town; the story would remain a point of notoriety for Thibault for years to come.

Unfortunately, the abuse would not stop here. For days to come Monsieur Ives was the source of much derived enjoyment from the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence public school, who after the sordid activities of the three mischievous girls had been, by some divine insight, granted permission to use for Thibault for their enjoyment. All manner of pranks and tricks were exacted upon his less than amused persona, and unbeknownst to the children his exactment of revenge would be severe.

The rest of this tale, the conclusion which you are inevitably aching to know, will have to wait. For one I must be granted permission by Monsieur Ives to share such a personal story on the delivery of retribution to the children of Saint Paul-de-Vence.

With a little investigation I'm sure you could seek out the disturbed and ruined children of that town. Be warned, their madness is not for the weak of heart, and do not mention the name of Thibault Ives.

For now, know this, he is my right hand man, he has an uncanny temper, and will not take kindly to jokes.

And should you cross him, may Joshua bless you.

Frayne Riesling

Monsieur Riesling is the only individual in our brethren to have acquired a medal. Though our sensibilities naturally lean towards the precipice of envy in this regard, we must maintain our calm yet tenacious veneer. To be envious situates one deeply in the pangs and plights of the unfortunate, and children, we are far from that cavernous decrepitude.

Frayne received his medal quite by accident. In 1885 residing in the deplorable hospitalities of the provinces of Indochina, Monsieur Riesling was a key component in the by now infamous defense of the fortress of Tuyen Quang. As you undoubtedly recall the siege of this strategically sound stronghold lasted from November 1884 to February 1885. During this time, constantly bombarded by the deafening echoes of Chinese guns and derogatory slurs, Riesling had resorted to eating buttons and writing imaginary letters to the girls he wished he could dedicate his death to back in the warm arbors of Provence.

The Chinese army consisted almost entirely of the infamous Black Flag, a unit of God foresaken bandits, the remnants of the Taiping rebels, a turgid band of excrementally birthed vermin.

As the siege raged on, Monsieur Riesling more and more incensed by the necessity for consuming items of clothing and unfortunately never having developed the acquired palate for the ivory fasteners of his shirts, fury overwhelmed his otherwise calm demeanor.

In the shower of gunfire that rained perpetually from the sky, it was as though Moses had decided to ally himself inexplicably with the Chinese much to the bemusement of our boys, who had done so well in memorising passages from Exodus, and had called from the divine a plague of raining lead and steel. In fact numerous individuals of the initial fortitude of our legionnaires (numbering 611) recall Frayne calling to the heavens as he climbed the mamelon of the inner fortress, "Moses, vous fils d'une putain".

As he topped the 23 metres of fortified hillock he drew his standard issue pistol and began picking off Chinese soldiers one by one with the incorrigible ferocity of a wolf or a tiger. Far greater perhaps, for now I will compare Riesling's fearsome tenacity to a tiger mounted by a wolf somehow strangely mixed with the enraged spider monkeys of Vrndavana in the presence of the King's impuissant menagerie of tropical birds . . .

Monsieur Riesling for the entire day of February 28 1885 repeated over and over as he fired each shot into the incoming and unsuspecting faces of the 20000 strong Chinese army, "I'm tired of digesting buttons".

Quite understandably Frayne had always had an issue with incontinence, not only in himself, but in the will of others, and his latest culinary adventures had rendered him almost incapable of venturing too far into the warm embrace of porcelain recepticles of waste. Considerably due to the fact that Tuyen Quang Fortress was not a lush hotel on the Champs d'Elysees, but even the outhouses (ingeniously consisting of a hole in the ground covered with a plank of admittedly exquisite mahogany) were not welcome depositories of his appetent bowels.

His rage was palpable. Within hours the Chinese army could do little but retreat into the non-existent shadows, and thus exposed by sunlight, and the open, receive a feral bullet in the back of their head.

After the dust settled from the whirlwind of anger emanating from the small but heroic man, his anger dissipated into the diaphanous ether of the Chinese wind gently dabbling its spindly fingers upon the coiled breath of the Yellow Sea. And with a punctilious visitation from the Gods of all things, Riesling immediately soiled himself with incomparable relief.

. . . In due course of time a ceremony to honour said soldiers of the Defense of Tuyen Quang was arranged, during which various individuals received specific medals for bravery and valiance. It was never really decided whether Riesling was honoured for his bravery and single handed victory over the evil Black Flags, or whether he was being coddled by the government for embarassing himself so thoroughly at the battle's culmination. Frayne Riesling decided the decision must have rested upon the latter justification, as there was no mention of him having shot anyone at all during the battle, but rather that as la general stated, "He maintained his dignity throughout the battle, and for a short time afterwards".

Riesling accepted his medal without comment, although his rage was once again all too apparent, that had it not been for the quick interjection of the Infantry to sway him to our cause, perhaps we would have seen the sequel performance of the Battle of Tuyen Quang under the marble glare of the Arc de Triumph.

. . . Now, you are privy to the fine company you are joining.

I must leave, dinner is served.

Gautier D'Alsace

There are two potential points of conflict the new recruits tend to have with D'Alsace on first meeting. First, he is a pathological smoker. If one glances at the photograph of our indomitable band you can just glimpse in his left hand the dangling carcass of rolled tobacco. Far be it from me to criticise the habits of the addict, as we are all prone to satiating our inexplicable desires from time to time, and most of us are slaves to the flaming leaf (by that I mean tobacco and not the potentially misunderstood notion of a homosexual wood fairy which would be absurd). In this case D'Alsace happens to quite literally smoke at every moment.

On one saturatingly febrile day in late August of three eclipsed years I returned to our sleeping quarters after a late night of innocent beverage consumption and innocuous flirtations with the ladies of the night only to find Gautier asleep with a cigarette perched precariously between his wind cracked lips. By some will of the Gods he was still performing the motions of the smoker, lifting his right hand, clasping the knotted foliole between his weathered fore and middle finger, and sighing with such resignation as he exhaled his fiery breath of smoke and anger, that one expected his immediate deliquescence into the folds of his already sweat stained bunk.

The second point of contention for many new recruits in regard to Gautier D'Alsace, and friends, this is a far more sensitive area of discussion, and less open to the whims of forthright criticism, D'Alsace is a mute. A brilliant poet, but a mute.

In 1894 when Gautier was 7 years old he was known as the most eloquent orator in all of France, at least to his friends and family. He could rattle off diatribes of the most beautiful considerations with the ease of William the Conqueror's rout of Harold at the Battle of Hastings. However, inevitably his proclamations would take a heavy turn after the first few minutes and border on denouncements of the King, Country, and people. The audiences at first would be amazed that such a young child could manifest such commendable fervor, but as the initial wonder passed, people actually heard the words uttered by this contemptible whelp.

One asks, quite understandably, surely this did not lead to someone harming Gautier enough to cause his complete silence for the rest of his deplorable days. The answer: yes it did.

Isaac Lefebvre, was a blacksmith in the small town of Beaucaire, located in the Gard departement of Languedoc-Roussillon. This miniscule hamlet was the site of Gautier's conception, birth, early childhood, and infamous speeches of questionable intendment. It was Isaac who finally silenced the veritable Demosthenes of this French epoch.

In June of each year in the town of Beaucaire, the townsfolk have the quaint practice of recreating the mythical battle of the village against the terror of le Drac. Apparently in the year 1250 of our Lord (The Infantry's, not those bastards hanging over the throne) a lavendar seller was kidnapped from Beaucaire by the dreaded Drac. She was held for 7 years under the water, and upon her release her only gift from this hideous shape-shifting beast was the ability to recognise le Drac in public, as to all other humans his form was more often than not, entirely invisible.

One day le Drac appeared in the market square and the woman recognised his form, in response to her revelation her eyes were subsequently removed by le Drac, causing quite a stir among the people of Beaucaire as you can well imagine. Armies charged against le Drac, and all failed, decimated by his incomparable and inconceivable powers of demonic brilliance. It is said that le Drac still lives at the bottom of La Rhone, or has simply died of old age, alone, bitter, and sad.

In Beaucaire this ominous tale is recreated in a celebratory mood, perhaps to ward of future attacks from the terrifying darkness. Isaac Lefebvre had been called this year in 1894 to play le Drac, and Gautier had been called to play the woman, already proving himself to have a formidable public speaking voice with his declamatory orations and being one of the youngest boys in the town at that time. At the climactic moment of the reenactment as Gautier cried with intense emotion at the revealing of le Drac in the township, Isaac Lefebvre instead of throwing the prearranged mixture of strawberry jam and curdled milk (indicative of blood) at Gautier's face, decided to cut out his tongue. The townsfolk of Beaucaire weren't alarmed by the realistic nature of the blood and violence as each year the production crew of the festivities seemed to out do themselves in provided entertaining and credible realism. In fact one town member, Guillaume Martin, was less than impressed, immediately crying out "Tres Faux".

Gautier quite suddenly passed out. It was at this time when Isaac screamd "J'ai amorti la batard" that people began to realize perhaps everything was not in step with the delightful festivities they had anticipated.

Noone really knows what motivated Isaac, perhaps it was simply Gautier's words, or perhaps it was Gautier's innocently disarming charm, all we do know is Isaac's mysterious last words from prison "Il est le diable. Vous verrez. Et souffrir."

Regardless the result was bittersweet as it all set up Gautier to be a natural rebel. Joining the French legion and meeting us, The Infantry. But more on that at a later date.

. . . Once again, I have risked too much time with you.

More on Gautier D'Alsace when the time is ripe.

For now know this . . .

Etienne Rameau

Etienne was born in the town of Perpignan in the Pyrenees Orientales departement in the Southern region of our beloved mother. Meaning, our country. Perhaps for the more despicably lascivious proponents of our cause there had been mistaken consideration of my phrasings.

His father, Beaumont Arago, was a farmer of Cork Oaks, Quercus Suber. His particular brand of corks were renowned throughout all of France as the most refined and expertly crafted of all wine stoppers, at least by he and his family. It is rumoured that Napoleon III once commented "J'aime ces plus que ma propre vie" referring to the delicate work of Monsieur Arago's corks. Admittedly the Emperor was exceptionally inebriated by the spindly influence of the fermented grape, and could have indeed been referring to the ample bosom of the lady who's lap he was laying upon at the time, but a bottle of 1842 Chardonnay was close at hand and an Arago cork was in clear eyesight, even if perhaps potentially peripherally. Nevertheless quite a claim to fame I'm sure you'll all agree.

Beaumont Arago was the bastard child of Francois Arago, the servant of the stars and the liberal mind behind much of our particular variety of mischief. As you probably recall it was Arago the elder's influence that abolished slavery in the colonies in 1853. As a resident of Perpignan for many years, a statue honoring his efforts stands in the center of town. Beaumont never met Francois, as in a weak moment the prior Arago had spent his evening curled in the arms of a lady of easy virtue, who's child (Beaumont) was a source of immense humiliation and shame for the astronomer politician.

Beaumont exacted his revenge by focusing all his efforts on the industry he was sure would bring his unsurpassable fame and glory: Cork Oak farming.

Beaumont met Etienne's mother Elodie Rameau in Paris. Beaumont had travelled to the capital to sell his wares to the exclusive, expensive, and illustrious restaurants frequented by the Parisian elite. In one particular restaurant known as Les Poissons Malades, Beaumont found Elodie. She sang opera tunes outside the restaurant in hope that one of the various famed musicians, singers, and theatrical folk might hire her for work upon the stage she longed to tread. Alas, both Beaumont and Elodie's efforts were in vain.

Beaumont and Elodie were married almost immediately, possibly as a subsequent buffer to the unfortunate embarassment and pain caused by the rejection from Les Poissons Malades. Within a few short years they had had Etienne, who grew to be strong, resolute of mind, and enviably handsome.

Etienne was born in Perpignan, as Beaumont had stolen Elodie back to his home town in efforts to salvage his last hopes of fame by creating novelty corks. Corks of all shapes and sizes carved into innumerable varieties of naughty sculptures representing the more questionable aspects of the male and female anatomy.

Etienne himself took very fondly to carving images from Greek Mythology. His pegasus cork still sits in the Louvre today. Admittedly not as part of an exhibition, but due to our leaving the bottle of wine corked with his masterpiece in the Louvre on our ill-fated mission to steal Joseph- Marie Vien's 'Cupid Seller'. Upon my return to retrieve the bottle and the cork manifestation of Perseus' famed winged horse, I was quite simply merde hors de la chance. One must assume however that the maintainers of the museum, bearing such an appreciation for fine art would never disregard the craftsmanship of our own Etienne.

Etienne's ability as a sculptor obviously came into clear conflict with his father's efforts, leading to such strife and misery, that Etienne left home in 1902 and joined the French Legion where he met us, The Infantry.

Etienne deciding to completely remove himself from the misery of association with his father opted to adopt his mother's maiden name as his own and became Etienne Rameau desiring no remnant of ties to the Arago family.

For now this is all I can tell you of Etienne, I fear I have risked too much in being so enthusiastic and detailed in my description of his life. In due time the conflict with his father will be given it's due weight in retelling, but for now we must disappear again.

. . . Etienne is an expert cook.