Hic Manebimus Optime

We arrived in Toulouse this morning reeking of days of layered sweat and fusty provincial grime. Monsieur Rameau decided, and pronounced, that he would indubitably (at present) give up his life for the watery tomb of a warm bath.

"As easily as a puddle decimated by the willful scorn of the scion of Hyperion, my dear friend?", I gently urged, but his bemused countenance betrayed a certain shifting of opinion. I disregarded the potential auditory hallucination I heard of his voice muttering something regarding 'lunacy' to Monsieur D'Alsace as we stepped into the shadow of Toulouse.

The borders of Toulouse: the gingerly etched adumbration of civility and culture, the gilded inference of ensuing somnolent occupations; dreamy pastimes.

Here we should meet Donatien Pierre Arago, Le Vicomte de Auxerre.

One may wonder what adventures stole the hearts and labours of the Infantry over these many moons; as Monsieur Ives has determined that our aching appendages have wintered the pangs of voyage for an entire cycle of that milk-toned mother of the tides. It must be mentioned that Ives presented his findings with none of the poetic panache I have just displayed, but rather uttered nonchalantly while glancing over various scribbled parchments, "Baise moi, quatre semaines!" He is delightfully ignorant of the inherent glory of language, and fails to realize that even the most dire of circumstances deserves an inextricably appropriate turn of phrase. I cuffed him around the nape, with echoed sentiments of my thought, "langue, mon cher ami".

In truth, our delay was caused by our quite unexpected parley with ghosts. True incorporeal beings (true only in regard to existence, as their behaviour and altruism was incomparably false).

As we travelled away from Montauban, we became increasingly delirious with hunger, vexation, and fatigue, and within a short time found ourselves almost irreversibly off course. I say almost, as our bravery and cunning have never yet failed our formidable selves, and as I am writing these words in a clear state of being alive, you can imagine that such was the case once again. Regardless, we found ourselves far closer to the city of Agen, in the southwest, several miles in the wrong direction. The news was passed to me via whisper from Monsieur Rameau. He had approached the river we had traversed numerous times to avoid the blockades of rock (veritable mountains) and undergrowth (veritable jungles) with ladle in hand, and tasted the nectarean waters of the rindle.

He approached my right ear. I felt his tentative tip toes behind me. An infuriating gesture of timidity, a red-handed exegesis towards his possession of inevitable bad news. The gentle syllables danced of his tongue as a mother lulling her child to slumbered repose: "This is the River Gars".

"One more time", I gently urged Rameau, fearing I misheard him, and wishing not to leap to unbridled rage without knowing the true extent of our folly.

"This, Sir, is the River Gars" he spluttered, "we're about a hundred miles off course".

I stopped. Turned slowly to Rameau maintaining my patience with a clutched fist. I said, slowly and deliberately, "Etienne, you have done the right thing. For had you announced this news loudly to the stars, Riesling would inevitably be in a fit of unvanquishable grief. Still, would you mind explaining to me how we have managed to travel so far away from our destined respite?"

Unfortunately, my last inquiry was yelled at rather conspicuous decibels, thus rendering the secret less than safe, and despair ran rampant. What ensued was baffling and inexplicable. Rameau blamed Ives, Ives blamed Riesling, Riesling blamed D'Alsace, D'Alsace lacking the convenience of spoken accusations pointed his stubby index finger at me, his face blanched with an apparent recognition of a neoteric Judas.

I immediately grabbed Monsieur Ives' military knife from his hip sheath, approached Monsieur D'Alsace with imperturbable grace and sliced his accusing finger off with swift adroitness. The cut was so clean, that not a drop of his nescient claret watered the dust. Silence reigned. The Infantry struck to a enraptured quietude as we stared in unabashed awe at D'Alsace's lifeless digit, snuggly, and quite beautifully, resting on the dilapidated remnants of an oak leaf.

My regrets in life are few, and for the order and restraint of the Infantry I would slice off not only D'Alsace's finger again, but all limbs and appendages, of all our men, that might be instrumental in accusing my personage of negligence. After all, order was restored. What I regret in this circumstance was that my actions caused the most pitiable sound ever recorded by human ears to issue forth from D'Alsace's muted mouth. The gutteral cry was not unlike a famished cat. A famished cat somehow simultaneously dying of ennui. It is a sonance that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

D'Alsace fell to his knees clutching his robbed hand. "Now, order shall resume" I firmly explained. "Yes, we are off course, but not so far that we must resort to behaviours worthy of those fabled cities, destroyed by the vengeful wrath of the Supreme". None of the men knew what I was referring too, but a subtle caressing of the knife hilt, still warm with the flesh, muscle, marrow of D'Alsace, silenced their incredulity. "We must be stalwart in our aims, and maintain a firm grip on our senses. Riesling, no more crying. Rameau, no more news, unless it is good. Ives, stop being a miserable bastard, and D'Alsace, if you ever accuse me again of such nonsense I shall end you with the alacrity of a tear drop streaming down the cheek of a new born babe. Does everyone comprehend our new arrangements?" I exclaimed with redoubtable vigor.

We were able to find a nearby barn to rest for a moment, to regroup, and negotiate our plan of action. We were at least another week away from our goal, and already we were falling into almost (that word again) irreversible decay.

The barn was abandoned aside from various vermin and insects, and reeked of flatulence and moss, but in comparison with our usual abodes of riverbanks and boughs of trees, this was Versailles. D'Alsace nursed his wound (I did later apologise for injuring him), Rameau set about foraging for some evening victuals, Riesling murmured to himself in the corner, and Ives simply glared at me with unequivocal distaste.

"Welcome to our palace, Monsieur Ives" I stated with ironic flair.

He scoffed, and rolled against a flat of wood, which immediately collapsed under his weight and the years of rot that wrought its frame. He scoffed again, and fell to sleeping. Within a few hours, before the return of Monsieur Rameau, the Infantry were huddled like children in various positions of slumber. I sat removing the relics of bone and flesh from Ives' knife. A grizzly pastime admittedly, but one must take pride in all aspects of life. I breathed deeply with pleasure in a moment of solitude and quiet, gently cursed my mother and father, as I do every night, and set about sleeping myself.

I heard a noise from the rafters, a labored, muffled sigh.

What transpired was the worst and most fearful night of my brief life . . .