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.

Exeunt Omnes

We have escaped the fearsome grip and sway of Rocamadour. No longer bound by the alluring sidelong glance of riches, our mission now is sustenance, respite, and mischief.

Our destination: Toulouse. Monsieur Rameau has a wealthy (and nearly expired) uncle who resides within this reliquary of the Place du Capitole. Though not generally recognized as a sacred shrine of modern culture in any official sense, in the tomes of yours truly Toulouse is one of the most exquisite and venerable places on earth. On the topic of veneration (or lack thereof), having never met Rameau's uncle I can only imagine that he ostends similar qualities of goodness, righteouness, and culinary genius as his nephew, and will be worthy of our trust and good humour.

Riesling has been worrying us all a great deal over the past few moons, as his temperament and verbal exchanges have been layered with disturbing insinuations and fearful foreboding. The other night as we consumed with unfortunate haste the chef-d'ouevre of Monsieur Rameau (Pine Cone a la Grass), Riesling neglected his delectable meal for the company of squirrels in a nearby grove of silver birches. When Monsieur Ives approached him he turned and stated quite matter of factly, "In previous times this strange mammal was my mother and this one your niece. Small world, eh?"

On another occasion, as we passed the city of Montauban (still bearing scars of the ravages of Louis XIII) ambling by the Pont Vieux, Riesling exclaimed with sudden horror:

"At Verdun, my friends, this is a sign of great inauspiciousness".

Halted by such irregular spontaneity, we each enquired further into Riesling's sudden outburst, to which he responded in kind with further nebulous divulgences:

"As Phillip the Fair departed for Toulouse, as we gentlemen now venture onwards, he commisioned the building of a bridge, this bridge, Le Pont Vieux".

We stared baffled by the incomprehensible ramblings of Riesling, whose brow now sweat with the anguish and torment akin to the harebrained inmates of Charenton asylum. How horrifying a thought; relinquishing Riesling to rubbing elbows with the likes of the infamous Marquis or the caricaturist Andre Gill (though his portrait of Dickens is fairly amusing), a proposition not once entertained in all previous exchanges with our dear boy, Frayne. He continued:

"1335, the bridge was finished. Do you know who the comissioned builders were my friends? One Etienne de Ferrieres and can you guess his partner in premonitions?"

We paused in trembling anticipation at the prospect of the secondary builder's name. Perhaps we had missed some nagging detail in our efforts in Rocamadour, perhaps Riesling had remembered our connection to prior criminal efforts at the bridge of Montauban, spanning the River Tarn, or perhaps Frayne Riesling was lingering on the precipice of desertion. I fingered at Ives belt to remove the military knife positioned at his hip in anticipation of the coming altercation. Ives unfortunately interpreted my gesture quite differently and slapped my hand away with peremptory disgust.

"The other architect of this glorified gangplank was none other than Mathieu de Verdun, and horrors unimaginable shall transpire in that city for which he is named", and Riesling immediately collapsed on the stony path with the combined weight of grim satisfaction and overwhelming grief.

The utter bewilderment of the Infantry was as palpable as a swift kick in the privates.

"Verdun is hundreds of miles from here Frayne," stated Monsieur Rameau with correct geographical estimations.

The bitter tears of Frayne Riesling filled the night sky as an entourage of torch bearers (natives of Montauban) began to cross the bridge to our dilapidated party, indubitably awoken by the uncustomary late night keening.

"Let us move" grunted Monsieur Ives, raising Riesling to his feet and wandering forward along the dusty path that strolls hand in hand with the city of Montauban, only to part and vanish further into the encroaching embrace of the Pyrenees. Gautier, Etienne, and myself followed with sheepish countenance, struck to silence by the abstruse exclamations of our decorated compatriot. Riesling's sniffles and whines echoed on the dark waters of the Tarn River. I paused to glance back at the Pont Vieux, the torch bearers still lingering on the stony frame, undoubtedly perplexed by the cries of sorrow for architects.

As we wandered further into the dark, Riesling turned and whispered gently:

"At Verdun, Monsieur Jareth, it shall come to this"