Author #2
The Abbé de Beauchêmont sighed. The clock on his mantelpiece showed it as being nearly midnight, the ornate numbering only just visible in the heavy candlelight. The soft music of a harpsichord floated through his open window from the garden below. He smiled as he recognised the tune, humming to himself absentmindedly.
He stopped himself, suddenly becoming very aware that he was procrastinating. Picking up his draft, he read it through once more. A thin smile stretched across his lips as he reached the end.
I am, and remain, a lowly writer of doggerel to your divine gift of wit. Yes – he was rather proud of that one. Superficially obsequious; truly caustic. The abbé folded up the letter and sealed it. I'll be sure to get that fool de Fêréchard to deliver it in the morning, he thought as he slipped into his nightwear. He walked over to the open window, hesitating as he thought of closing it.
No, he decided,
after all the trouble I went through to get these rooms—? He pulled the bedclothes over his elderly frame and closed his eyes, straining to pick out the harpsichord's melody as he sank further into sleep. It was not long before he gave in completely, lapsing into a soft sleep, music still dancing lightly around the room.
-:•:-
The Comte de Frémont awoke to a heavy knocking at his door, begrudgingly opening his eyes and greeting the day with a pre-determined contempt. He propped himself up under the sheets and glanced to his right.
Wonderful, he thought, eyeing the curvature of a young woman's breast under the silk covers,
it wasn't a dream. He rubbed his eyes and turned his attention once more to the knocking, which had sounded again. His visitor was clearly not one for waiting.
"Entre!" he called wearily, though he wasn't sure whether he was weary from having just woken up, or the night before.
A small, toadyish man dressed in gaudy fripperies entered the room bowing. De Frémont smiled a dark smile. Years of experience in courtly intrigues and politics meant that he knew exactly what this person wanted.
Nevermind, he thought,
I do need some entertainment this morning.
"Bonjour, Monseigneur. I trust you are well this fine morning?"
"I am well enough. Was it not Rousseau who said that happiness was a good cook, a good bank account and a good digestion?" The comte shot the visitor a wry, questioning look – fine-tuned over years spent trying to intimidate the plethora of insipid courtiers that existed within the palace.
"Yes, monsieur, I believe it was," the visitor stammered, "now if monsieur would be so ki—"
"You see," the comte interrupted, "I have always thought him wrong; what are all those things if not shared with another?" With this, he turned to look at the paramour sleeping next to him, her chest rising and falling softly as she breathed. He smiled, his eyes giving away a lecherous desire, taking his time before turning his attention once more to the visitor. "You must forgive me," he began once more, "I know you don't like to be kept waiting, do you marquis?"
"I— I beg your pardon, monsieur?" By now, the visitor was a sweating wreck of tasteless nervousness, all composure crumbling in the midst of the his host's domineering nature.
"I merely commented on how I know you don't like to be kept waiting." The comte paused, a fake look of confusion creeping mockingly across his face. "I'm sorry, I thought I had the pleasure of speaking to the Marquis d'Impatience." The visitor's look of confusion was genuine.
"Only that's the impression anyone would have drawn after that impressive knocking display earlier. Don't you think, marquis?" The last word was spat out with a deliberate iciness. The visitor could only manage a pitiful nod, his eyes shifting frantically between the door and the comte. "I'm sorry, did you just say something?"
"Yes, Monseigneur. Pardon, Monseigneur," he stammered.
"Good," de Frémont began almost blithely before switching to a tone of utmost seriousness. "Now tell me what you want and piss off." The visitor handed the comte a sealed letter, before leaving as quickly as courtesy allowed.
De Frémont rolled his eyes as he scanned the top of the letter.
Not another letter from that damned abbé. The comte had met the abbé once a few years prior, when the two had shared a prostitute. There hadn't been much time for a proper introduction, but the comte reserved a certain contempt for everyone who saw fit to write to him, especially those who saw fit to write four times in a fortnight.
These things can be dealt with later, he thought, rolling over in bed.
Now I have more important business to which I must attend.
-:•:-
The parlour was busy with the low thrum of people going about their business. The abbé turned his head around instinctively as a shout rose from a card table in the corner of the room. A young man shot up from his chair and pointed at an opponent, displacing his finely powdered wig in the process.
No doubt some young suitor too big for his own boots, he thought, casting a wandering look beneath the table,
if, indeed, they are his own boots. The abbé gave a discreet, closed-mouth laugh.
Piquet causes more trouble than its players are worth.
"Monseigneur," the abbé didn't stir, still examining the hideously ornate buckles on the shoes of one of the piquet players. "Monsieur!" De Beauchêmont shot round, turning to face two well dressed gentlemen, each splayed lazily over a finely upholstered sofa. "Pardon, Monseigneur. It's your turn," offered the older of the two in a tone verging on patronising. The abbé tried to look apologetic.
"I do apologise, Messieurs. Where were we?" In truth, the abbé had little interest in the people with whom he was sparring, but complied anyway. It was what etiquette demanded.
"Have you been paying attention?" challenged the younger.
"I'm afraid not, Monsieur. My mind has started to dally of late." He drew the words out in a droll fashion.
"My my, Saint-Saëns, I didn't think men of the cloth were ones for dalliance." Saint-Saëns let out a short, haughty laugh.
"Very good, Gregoire. Very good."
"I wouldn't count in it, Messieurs." De Beauchêmont retorted. You arrongant swine. "Now, shall we proceed with some expedition?"
"Fine. Taste, haste; sanity, vanity."
"And the verse form?"
"Octosyllable."
"I question my own sanity,
For, lacking decency or taste,
These men obsessed with vanity
Expand their minds with little haste."
The abbé's two opponents laughed the fashionable closed-mouth laugh.
"Very good, monseigneur," offered Gregoire.
"Thank you. Now, if you do excuse me, I must be off," said the abbé, not surprised that the two hadn't grasped the sardonic nature of the verse.
"So soon?"
"Yes, stay. Or are you leaving for fear of being subject to my wit?"
"Believe me, Monsieur, I have no such worries. I am subject only to God and the king." A polite laugh came from out of the abbé's view.
Good, we had an audience. That quip will be doing the courtly rounds for a few days yet.
The abbé turned for the door, his eyes shut – half out of smugness, half out of relief to be away from such half-wits.
"The thief should know from whom he steals." The voice was low and assured, the kind of time that sent a whole room crashing to its knees. The abbé clenched his eyes shut tighter.
Merde! That bastard comte has arrived.
"Monsieur, what a lovely surprise it is to see you." De Frémont looked unconvinced, continuing as if the abbé hadn't spoken.
"Let me see... 'The king is not a subject.'" The abbé got the impression that de Frémont was acting the part by pausing for a moment's thought. "Benjamin Jonson, playwright for King James I of England. He died in, what, 1637? I'm afraid your little quip came at least 150 years too late, monseigneur." De Beauchêmont closed his eyes and sighed as the now rather sizeable assembled crowd began to laugh.
"Very good, Monsieur!" one of them cried. The abbé recognised the voice.
The fickle bastard! It was Saint-Saëns.
"Bravo!"
"Encore!" offered two more. The abbé opened his eyes, took a deep breath and prepared his retort.
"It is little wonder." He paused, very deliberately.
"What is?" De Frémont was almost shocked that the abbé had dared speak. Almost. His tone was more inquisitive than anything else, as if waiting for some inferior punch line.
"I had always pitied you, but now I see I have no need."
"What do you mean?" The comte was less composed now. His tone was more sincere.
"I had always thought you were a half-wit because you have a smaller brain than the avergae man. Now I see I was wrong. Your brain is normal size," he paused for effect, "it's just full to the rafters with trivial tripe." De Beauchêmont lingered on the dental sounds, almost spitting at his rival. By now the crowd was crippled with laughter, enjoying the spectacle more than any game of piquet. The abbé afforded himself a short, smug smile.
The comte turned puce, but only for a moment. He didn't dare let the court see him visibly affected by such a low remark.
"That too would explain a lot for me, monseigneur." He began his counterattack in earnest, not even pausing to allow the abbé a chance to reply. "I had always thought your language in our correspondence was somewhat dumb." The last word was forced out, the comte catching his rival's gaze and holding it intently. "I have seen mewling babes with more advanced idiolects. I had always thought that you, too, were something of an idiot. Now I realise you were just patronising me." The crowd gasped in wonderment.
You prissy hog's tit! The abbé remained calm and unflinching, though anyone well-versed in the art of verbal jousting would have been able to tell that he was composing himself.
"Do you affront my honour, Monsieur? Would you ridicule me in front of this crowd? Please, there are women present." The abbé could sense something much bigger was drawing near. The comte didn't bother turning around to reply.
"You of all people should know that I always like to help women see the wilder side of the court, shouldn't you, de Beauchêmont?" De Frémont paused, swinging himself round to face the abbé with a well-honed sense of showmanship. "Or should that be 'Debauchermont'?" The crowd gasped, almost scandalised, but enjoying themselves nonetheless. More so, even. "Enough of this pitiful sparring. Our words grow duller by the minute." The comte eyed his sword of rank. "Let us move on to something more...scathing."
By now the room was hysterical, a loud buzz of excitement emanating wildly from the crowd. The abbé spoke up over the cacophony.
"Damn!" He feigned annoyance. "It would seem my wit is the sharpest thing I possess. What am I to do if not soar with that?"
"Die?" A women shrieked, scandalised as the affair reached a brash crescendo. An older, powdered member of the noblesse de l'épée called out from the crowd.
"Monseigneur, you may use my sword." A small parting appeared in the crowd, allowing the courtier to pass the object to the abbé, who took it with a reticent reluctance. He weighed the blade in his hands, turning it about and inspecting the ornate detailing on the hilt. He almost wanted to laugh at the perversity of a man of the cloth engaging in a duel to defend his honour.
"Merci." He gave a discreet to the noble.
"Madames et Messieurs, I do apologise, but I fear we must adjourn to the courtyard." De Frémont offered confidently "I wouldn't want to ruin the curtains." The assembled throng was too excited to laugh, instead making for the doors in an oddly calm fashion.
-:•:-
The abbé and the comte stood about six feet away from each other, each eyeing the other's sword intently. Neither had yet raised their sword to the en garde position.
"What is it to be then, monseigneur? Name the terms."
De Beauchêmont considered for a moment before replying.
"The winner shall be the first to draw blood." The comte scoffed without interrupting. "The winner shall be vindicated in the eyes of the court, and shall be crowned the court's principle wit." De Frémont looked suitably half-interested.
"And the loser?"
"The loser, Monsieur, shall have suffered the ultimate ridicule, and must leave court forever in disgrace." A collective gasp of shock rose from the gathered crowd. Many had not braved the outside world, and were watching out of windows. Those who had followed the duelling pair had crept ever closer to the two until they had formed a semicircle around them. The courtiers stood waiting for the comte's reply.
"Fine." He said betraying no emotion. "I trust you have your affairs in order?"
"Naturally," the abbé retorted with a wry gaze. "But enough of this verbal sparring. It is time for the dance to begin." The two raised their swords into the en garde position, pacing about each other, waiting to see which of them would begin proceedings.
It was the comte who launched himself into the virginal lunge, jabbing his sword straight at the abbé's torso. The abbé parried and countered with a reposte, striking just above the comte's left shoulder. The comte dodged the attack, and countered once more, his blade landing to the right of the abbé's hip. Five minutes quickly passed, then ten. Parry followed reposte, which preceded parry and reposte again. Though neither was alien to heavy physical exertion, both men quickly began to grow weary. The older abbeys Beauchêmont strained not to give in and wipe his brow, sweat bead and collecting in his eyebrows. His blows struck progressively lower down the comte's body, until he was in danger of inflicting ridicule of a different kind.
The younger comte was able to keep his blows higher, forcing the abbé to strain himself just to parry, though his footwork soon became less nimble. His steps became increasingly careless, pushing just to keep himself balanced. He let out a determined, feral grin, a harsh grunt that expelled all force of his psyche into physical exertion.
He thrusted one final, defiant time, a wry grin spreading across his face as he did so. As his blade neared the abbé's torso, the comte sensed his hour was near. He could see the arcs of crimson blood spouting from the abbé clearly in his mind's eye, all the while, his smile spreading further across his face until he carried a misplaced look of arrogance. By now, his mind was occupied with images of the abbé in pain on the floor, the scene becoming closer and closer until reality until—
The comte landed in an ugly heap on the stone floor, his hands rushing up to his should in a primal attempt to numb some of the pain. He tried desperately to ignore the sharp heat pulsing from his ankle, his eyes clamped shut. Half of him wondered if his eyes were shut in fear; the fear of looking up and seeing a sweating old man standing victorious over you, of the gathered crowd once so lively hushed into an embarrassed silence. The abbé was first to break the silence.
"Hold out your finger." The comte could barely comprehend what was happening around him, complying without thought. Slowly, his arm prised itself off his shoulder and his hand unfurled. The abbé nodded and lifted his sword, pricking the comte's outstretched finger just enough to draw a small dot of blood.
"That's not the first little prick you've given someone, eh abbé?" the comte panted, short of breath after the spar.
"I would answer, but sadly physical exertion isn't conducive to repartee at my age." The comte gave out a short, genuine laugh.
"With that, I shall leave, if you would help me up."
"No, Monsieur." The comte looked incredulous, the abbé quickly continuing to explain. "Naturally, I shall help you up. But I do not wish you to leave. Who are we to call ourselves civilised men if we spurn each other according to games of wit?" He gave the comte a warm smile.
"Bravo, monseigneur. That was worthy of Voltaire himself."
"It's the compassion, Monsieur. What is wit without compassion?" De Frémont paused in thought for a pregnant period before answering.
"Beyond a game, monseigneur. Beyond a game."
Fin