Mon Cher M. Moreau, Please find enclosed one (1) livre. It is the consequence of a conversation that I had earlier this morning with my valet, Montmorency as I made my toilet.
Me (gazing musingly into the mirror as Montmorency adjusted my reversible bassinet): 'Tell me, Monty, what kind of a man would you say I was? Monty: 'Oh sir, you are half-sun god, half-top catalogue model. Physically, it is well known that from the tips of your ironically tiny moustaches to the blessed fragrance of your toenails, you are the acme of perfection. In spiritual terms, your purity is such that it makes the recent run of Popes look like a series of Turkish merchant seamen ejected from a dolly shop in Marseilles for trying to vomit the flags of all nations. I count every day since I was indentured into your service at the age of three as a birthday'. Me: 'Yes. I sense you speak from the heart. So why then should I have received this abusive missive from a certain Colonel Moreau? Read it... No, you fool, don't touch it with your hand, use the tongs like me. Do you not know that the Arquebusiers are the human equivalent of anthrax? Monty: 'Sir, he seems to chastise you for some imagined slight to his... beggar? Me; ''Tis true. Every arquebusier is too delightfully poor to have a horse. They therefore proceed to battle a-piggyback, carried by the scrofular monkeys of the street. Monty: 'They say, sir, how can I put this delicately?, that an arquebusier often has a more sinister connection with his mount. The regiment of the 69th operates the Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell policy so popular amongst the militias of th Americas. Me: 'How unspeakably vile! ...And what is an arquebus anyway? Monty: 'Sir, I believe it to be a firewarm of such obsolesence that it comes with a written guarantee from the manufacturer that it will do no harm to either target or bearer. The general staff of our own great armies usually assigns the 69th the role of cannonfodder, a kind of ballast for the real fighters. For the arquebusiers to do any kind of harm to an enemy would be an insult to the honour of France. They are present solely to povide a carpet of their dead over which officers of genuine regiments such as the one you have just joined may saunter gaily to to the fray. They are nothing more than insurance write-offs so that his His Grace the Minister of War may assign one or other campaign against expenses. Me: 'So, what?, and Colonel Moreau is their leader, is he? Monty: 'Yes sir. The equivalent of chief wharf rat. Me: 'Of course, of course, of course. Yes, I shall not reply in kind to his missive. I am, to an extent, bemused by its urchin efforntery. Rather than offering him steel, I shall send him gold, possibly more money than he has ever seen in his wretched life. A single Louis, I think. Monty: 'Sir, he will only spend it on laudanum. Me: 'No, Montmorency, be generous. He may yet use it to buy himself some britches not made of barrel coping or yet he may redeem five or six of his whey-faced, starveling children from the pawnbrokers. Monty: 'Oh sir, you have a heart as big as all outdoors. No wonder the peasantry gather by the roadside as you pass, crying 'It's always Christmas with Uncle Renault'. Me: 'I can't help myelf, I'm just eaten up with goodness. As ever, Renault Espace Ah! Monsieur, you do poor Crapaud a great disservice by your unkind words, which now echo all over the city. Perhaps your ears - so attuned to the malformed utterances of Pau or Tarbes or wherever you sprang from - were unable to comprehend his initial polite greeting. While I admit he is softly spoken, his grammar is flawless and for him to suffer injury at the hands of your trained ogre for mere lack of volume is a gross injustice, against which I as his master must remonstrate. The slander continues - you describe the poor fellow as leprous! Do you wish to consign him to permanent bachelorhood for some wholly imagined slight? The truth is he fell in the Seine last week and suffered frostbite when I fished him out. Your insinuation that he was begging for food constitutes another sally against me, since I am responsible for his nutrition. Be informed Monsieur, that Crapaud's naturally slender build is the legacy, not of hunger, but of a sinewy athleticism that belies his years, although in this case his knowledge of Greco-Roman wrestling was insufficient to preserve him from the cross-eyed viciousness of your hired bully. I await an apology, Monsieur, and if I do not get it I shall be very pleased to acquaint you with one of our Parisian customs, which we invoke where in similar circumstances you provincials tend to call for a one-on-one spitting competition, I believe. M. Moreau, Lt. Col, 69th Arquebusiers &c.
