M. Moreau, a denizen of Paris, retrieves a lengthy broadsheet from his morning
soup.
'This de Mylcandonai is an important man, well-regarded by His Majesty, and
here they are slandering him all over the streets, and into my breakfast. If
they think I am going to follow the detestable English custom of reading the
morning paper they can think again! You have a lot to answer for, M. Phantom
Menace. To begin with, what was your mother thinking, to bestow such a name?
Ah, your paper has absorbed at least a spoonful, devil take it. That's
politics for you, Crapaud.'
'For me monsiuer? You are too kind!', the aged servitor's crumpled face breaks
into a wan smile. He takes the missive, tears off the soup-stained portion,
and with elaborate care folds the remaining paper and deposits it atop a neat
pile next to the privy door.
M. Moreau has returns to his soup, a thoughtful look on his face.
