La vengeance du Cavalier

     A few days ago I was sitting in a local café sipping espresso and thinking furiously when a man and a woman sat down next to me and started talking. I found that I could not help but overhear their conversation, which immediately disrupted my thinking. I had thus resigned myself to leave, taking my last mouthful of espresso, when I heard one of them mention as an aside Royan’s being home to a library dating back to the early 16th century. This news thoroughly took me off guard, causing me to spew espresso from my mouth and let out a shocked “QUOI?”
     Kindly ignoring my unseemly outburst and the espresso on their shoes they obligingly explained that the library had been all but forgotten over the course of many years. Most people now did not know of its existence because it was not lavishly decorated on the outside, stood in an otherwise dilapidated section of the city, and who went to libraries these days anyway? When they made known their intention to visit the library later that afternoon I hastened to invite myself along.
     Upon our arrival I noticed that the exterior indeed appeared somewhat modest, but once inside! inside I found that its beauty rivaled even Coimbra’s Biblioteca Joanina. I wandered around admiring the intricate baroque architecture and marveling at the ancient and varied tomes, which adorned the walls from floor to ceiling. My friends stayed and toured with me for quite some time before eventually returning to their hotel. I bade them farewell, having decided to stay a bit longer to peruse a collection of short stories written in the 19th century that I had picked out during my wanderings. I did not recognize the author (a certain Thibault Duconte), and the book looked as though it had not been disturbed for many years. But being curious and having nothing but time, I opened and began to read.
     Three hours later I had finished. My overwhelming impression was that the stories were pleasant and diverting save for one which markedly stood out from the rest. It possessed a deeper and somewhat darker impetus than the others. Moreover in a postscript the author claimed to have exceptionally chosen to base this story on an event that actually took place in Paris in the late 17th century. I found it compelling enough to return to the library the next day in order to translate it into English. This I have done so that I might share it with you.

La vengeance du Cavalier
Thibault Duconte

     Footsteps echoed stridently in the Manoir de la Bastion as a cavalier rushed down a long hall toward a small, ornamented door at the far end. His hair had come partly undone and flew about his face in rythm with his steps. A look of rage and contempt pervaded his features. His right hand firmly grasped the hilt of his rapier.
     Suddenly his path was obstructed by a man dressed in livery come into the hall from a side passage, sword drawn and at the ready. The cavalier shrieked in fury, and drew his sword in a flash. After a short skirmish the man fell, mortally wounded in the chest. The cavalier quickly pulled his sword from his enemy and continued on his way in the same frenzied pace.
     Halfway down the hall he was set upon by two more retainers who had heard the commotion and come to aid their comrade. He parried what would have been a fatal blow from the one, but just failed to get clear of the other’s sword, the base of whose blade violently struck him in the face and split open his cheek. However the guard’s ambitious attack had left him vunerable and the cavalier took full advantage, quickly stabbing him in the abdomen, then turning in time to defend against the remaining guard’s continued attack. They fenced for some time until the cavalier finally wounded the other in the hand and was able to finish him soon thereafter.
     As the cavalier continued down the hall he felt blood flowing abundantly from the gaping wound in his face. Tears from the pain streamed down and mixed with the blood, but his mind was set and a fierce determination pushed him onward. His pace did now slow. Reaching down he unsheathed a dagger with his left hand. Nothing stood in his path now but two guards stationed on either side of the door armed with pistols. The pistols had been trained on him ever since he had come into view at the other end of the hall. They waited for him to approach. He moved steadily forward. When he was within firing range of the pistols the guards set them off. One of the balls he heard whistle by his head; the other struck him in the shoulder. He grunted in pain and stumbled, but staid his course, his momentum carrying him ever forward. The two guards drew their swords and prepared to meet him.
     Summoning what was left of his quickly failing strength the cavalier charged into them. With a feint followed by a decisive attack he impaled the one to the left of the door. Then, already inside the other’s guard, he dispatched the man with his dagger before he could react. Leaving them both moribund on the floor he gritted his teeth, took a step back and kicked in the small ornamented door.
     Inside the room, behind a marble table sat a small man dressed completely in white from head to toe. He was still as a statue, his face a sickly waxen color. He gazed with horror at the door through which the cavalier had entered but uttered not a word.
     The cavalier marched up to the table and pronounced the following sentence:
     “For the dishonnor and rape of my sister, Manon de la Fayette, I condemn you to death.”
     He then reached into his vest, drew out a pistol, held it to the man’s forehead and fired.

Life in Royan

I’ve been in Royan for about two weeks now, long enough to settle in and get a feel for life here. Currently I am in a provisional living situation. I’m staying in the Résidence Erasmus, which is the housing for language students who come to study at the CAREL. It’s a fairly nice little apartment all things considered. I have a view of my workplace out my second-story window, and it’s pretty spacious compared to other student housing.

I have however noticed something very peculiar about my apartment. A few days after moving in I realized that there is a gnome living under my bed. He stands no taller than eight inches from the ground, wears something that resembles a medieval tunic, and has a long beard that has been braided into two strands with great care, which I’ve since learned is pretty standard for gnomes.

At first I had little to complain about as his habits were more or less innocuous. Late at night when I was on my computer he would creep out from under the bed and watch me intently as I worked. Now and then he would grunt or guffaw in apparent criticism, but he restrained himself for the most part. Lately he has become more intrusive, and I have come to realize, as it is now painfully obvious, that he has tasked himself with assuring the quality of my work here as a teacher. This wouldn’t be so bad if his method for doing so consisted of something other than negative reinforcement.

This negative reinforcement has evolved over time. As I mentioned before, he used to limit himself to disapproving grunts. Now, whenever he isn’t satisfied with my efforts he retrieves a miniature cat-o-nine tails from under the bed and flogs me vigorously on the part of my head where he assumes my conscience to reside. (As a result I have a sore and slightly lacerated left temple.) Even worse, while I’m trying to sleep he paces to and fro at the foot of my bed demanding definitions for things like bounded morphemes and periphrasis. When, in bewilderment, I ask him why I would require any of these things to effectively teach English as a foreign language, he shrieks horribly and goes into a rage, tearing at his hair and stomping his feet.

At this point I’m not really sure how to get rid of him. I might try asking about anti-gnome spray at the grocery store.

I remembered that I have a blog.

     I have been back in Portland for a few weeks now, so I thought it would be appropriate to bring you all up to speed. As many of you know, I have been hired to teach at a language school in Royan, France. I have a twelve-month contract which starts on September 1st. Before coming back to Portland, I went down to Royan to meet the staff and tour the facility, and am very much looking forward to working there. Royan is located in the southwest of France right on the mouth of the Gironde Estuary. If you want to read more about the city you might go to the wikipedia page by following this convenient link: Brian will be here.

     Meanwhile, you will be happy to learn that while back in the United States I have not been wasting my time. In fact I have taken the initiative to conceive of and carry out a certain experiment with the goal of pushing the putative bounds of literature. How did I attempt this? by recruiting a crack team of apes and turning them loose on a room full of typewriters.

     I find it difficult to fully express the pride I felt observing them hard at work, hearing the click-clack of inspiration, smelling the full pungent odor of abstract thought and creation. And I! I stood in front and encouraged.

     “Ho there Max! how gifted you are with metaphor! Bravo Linus! Such an aptly turned phrase!”

     I stood at their head, a conductor at the head of his orchestra. I drew forth and tempered their creation.

     And finally, after days of relentless labor and at the limits of exhaustion, our task came to an end. Holding the finished work in my hand, holding the pages of the fruits of our labor, I began to read. What wonder! What riches! What literature! It engulfed me, wrapped me up in its beauty; I laughed and cried, rejoiced and mourned in obedience to the prose. And when I had finished, with glistening eyes I slowly looked up at my companions.

     “My friends, our great enterprise has come to its term, but it is happily crowned with success. Gentlemen, my felicitations.”

     At this the apes, deeply moved by my words, began to crowd around me, laying their hands upon me and some even trying to embrace me. This was something I had not expected. I bore it well for a short moment, but then I started to feel a profound revulsion deep within. The hair! the hair! I happened to catch the eyes of several of them as we were so close, and I saw there naught but savagery and void. At a certain moment I could no longer contain the horror. All of a sudden I flung myself backward in the throng, fell forward onto my knees, threw my head back and shrieked.

     “Get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty apes!”