Mon Cher Moreau, You must be more precise in your intentions.
Unless I have misunderstood you, you seem to be inviting me to a dubious assignation with only yourself for company in a back alleyway. Obviously I'm exceptionally flattered by your attentions but, to use the vivid terminology of you arquebusiers, I am a muzzle-ejecter rather than, like yourself, a breech-loader. Ever Yours - and that's a figure of speech only, Renault Espace load -----Original Message----- From: Tim Meyen [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]] Sent: 25 October 2001 01:21 To: [EMAIL PROTECTED] Subject: Re: RE to MM M. Espace, I received your letter just this morning. Alas for my faith in human goodness, the envelope contained neither the hoped-for apology, nor the promised coin. I can only assume the latter was souvenired by your trained mutant, perhaps the residual odour of your pocket brings comfort to his sleepless nights, but I do not credit him with the wit or duplicity to remove the former. Since you appear tragically unable to transcend the allure of worldly riches, I suggest we wager a spot of lucre - say a hundred crowns unless like Mme. B__ you require even more than that to get your blood moving - on the matter of whether or not you squeal for mercy when we cross cake-forks or whatever cutlery is on hand in the disused courtyard behind the Hotel Fauxfur at dawn next Friday. Moreau [OOC: MM challenges RE] ACLARKE wrote: > > 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,
