Trained to Vanquish (Tag: Lucien)

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

(OOC: Couldn't think of a thread title, so it gets to be that )

Victor was quite pleased with his arranged company. The young man reminded him of himself, before the change of power at least. A fellow saint-cyrien, an officer, an aristocrat, a royalist. Perhaps not so good with a horse, perhaps a bit better with a blade. A few years younger, a more illustrious family, but his subordinate in military rank. Ambitious, Victor assumed, so perhaps he would catch up to him. Not that Victor didn't have ambitions of his own.

The liver chestnut horse was one of the best Saumur had had to offer him. A better one than the last one, the poor unfortunate creature he'd had to shoot during a skirmish with those last defenders of the previous government. A better jumper, this one, only a bit faster but with far more scope. He patted the animal's sleek neck, bringing it to a slow halt. It was nice to be outside of the city for a while, the air clearer and the distances farther. A pleasant relief, a break from the bounds of the city.

There were moments, of course, that he missed life in Saumur. These rides relieved that feeling, derived mainly from the feeling that he was surrounded with buildings everywhere he turned, and even the parks were—though beautiful—nothing like life in the more provincial town.

Life in Paris was different, and although he liked it—there was an intoxicating element to the bigger city, with its free-flowing wine and plentiful women—he found it somehow foreign. His life had been structured around military life for years, a decade or even a bit more now. It still was, but it was different when his duty as a soldier was to train the king of France into a proficient horseman. The boy's lack of knowledge frustrated him; he was too old to be completely unfamiliar with the basics of horsemanship, and Victor was used to men who had grown up in the saddle.

He wore a saber, as an aspect of his uniform, as a weapon if he should need it, as an expression of pride and masculinity and military pride and valor. For practice, too—he had no intention, at the moment, of fighting a real duel with the lieutenant, but a bit of fencing practice was certainly not out of the question.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

It had been a good idea, Lucien decided. A very good idea indeed to use this day for a nice rideout and perhaps a little blade practice down the road. He would do so with Captain Vicor D’Anthès, a man of only a few years older than himself, former fellow Saint-Cyrian, now proud member of the Cadre Noir. A man of distinction and quite amiable company indeed, and certainly by no means a bore. That was one of the most important points in Lucien’s eyes, Paris seemed to be filled with bores these days. Only in this small group of men and women, in the Chouannerie, you got the impression that there were still people around who knew their worth and were willing to fight for it. If there was a new stupid uprising again, like there had been two years ago – which gladly had been used by the Chouannerie for their own gain, clever as they were – they couldn’t do with a bunch of saplings and cowards.

No, Captain D’Anthès was of a different calibre, and he had Lucien’s respect – which didn’t stop him though from trying to beat the man in their friendly duels. Should they one day be forced to stand against each other in a real figt – whatever the occasion – it would be a truly interesting matter, since both knew the shortcomings and talents of the other right well by now. Of course he would still win, Lucien had no doubt of that. He wasn’t called Sans-Grâce for nothing. If he saw an opening in his opponents’ defence, he thrust into it, not caring if he might cause a mark or a wound. They should have been more careful after all. Victor was quite good though, not his league but better than many sparring partners he had had during the last few years.

What was also intriguing was his different weapon. Victor wore the saber of a cavalryman, a weapon that was most effective on horseback, used for slicing more than thrusting. Many thought Lucien’s own weapon of choice, the rapier, to be outdated and outfashioned in favour of the saber, but that was only partially true. The saber was a war weapon and therefore had naturally been preferred in times when France had been constantly at war with different enemies, whereas the rapier was a more one-on-one choice of arms, dealing with only one single or a small handful of opponents. It was less flexible in movements and less useful for defence, again especially in larger crowds, furthermore it was a weapon that demanded profiency for being deadly. A middle-classed rapier fighter would be bested by even worse saber fighters, given half the chance. But a skilled man could take on a very good saber fighter without fear of losing. Still, the combination always bore thrill and interesting outcomes, since they demanded a different range an different tactics.

There he did go again… there was nothing Lucien could spend more time on than thinking on different duelling weapons and their characteristics. Apart from having a good time of course, openly savouring life with gambling, flirting and actually USING the blade. He guided his horse – not a match for Victor’s of course, but still a costly black Andalusian, its pride matching Lucien’s – closer to his companion, looking at him sideways. “Glad to leave the stink of the city behind for a moment, eh? Lord knows, it something still hard to get used to sometimes.”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Victor's horse flicked its ears at the proximity of the lieutenant's black, tail swishing slightly and head raised. He pushed the horse forward, a warning not to cause trouble. The animal was trained for movements in formation, there was no reason it should bicker with the other. To Victor's eyes the animals were almost equal, though the Andalusian was not so suited to his style of riding. The breed was better for Baroque horsemanship, and though Victor had been taught the tricks of that as well, he preferred the battlefield applications of its elements to the formal preservation of its details.

Still, the almost outdated nobility of the Spanish horse suited the lieutenant, matched perfectly to the young man's rapier, to the dueling brilliance and battlefield obsolescence of his talent with the blade. D’Anthès, the consummate cavalryman, had always had more use for saber—but had a complete respect for the younger man's superior talent with his blade of choice. Their purposes were different, but equally suited to their shared ideals.

The prospect of a duel against his rapier excited him. It would be a dangerous game, but what game worth playing was not? The saber might be more practical, but Victor knew the lieutenant's reputation even if he had never personally seen him fight.

“The filth at times outweighs the virtue,” Victor responded. “And for both wine and women, I have found better far beyond the Paris gates.” It was not that he disliked Paris, but too much of the city's center of vice was controlled by common criminals, some of them constituting a sort of human excrement that Victor would have been disappointed to find anywhere but a regiment of cannon-fodder.

It was a dreadful shame that the king did not hold his court at Versailles. There they would be free of Paris' grip, and farther away from the tormenting howls of revolutionaries. Misguided fools, who thought the fire of their words could stir up the passions of the mob and, by some miracle, elevate them into kings themselves. Victor held them in contempt. No shift of power would turn a peasant into a count or a laborer into a king, unless nobility was hidden somewhere both in his blood and his soul.

“There are times I wish Tuileries was instead Versailles.”

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Even though the streets had been crowded with workmen, the usual scum and vehicles of all kinds and sizes, they had made good progress forward and had now left the gates behind, being greeted by the guards of the gate with a smart salute, which made Lucien smirk in satisfaction. Soon, he thought, soon even my peers will have to salute me in public, because I will rise beyond the rank of a Lieutenant. He was working hard on pulling the right strings and he knew that his affiliation with the Chouannerie would help in this, too. And that was why they needed to prevail against this lunatic scum of the street slowly wanting to rally the masses again at all costs. He could not have his prospects spoilt by such a thing, he would NOT be denied what was legitimately his. And he was sure Victor thought the same. What true aristocrat in his own sane mind would think differently after all!

He gave a knowing chuckle when Victor spoke about that the wine and the women of Paris left a little to be desired as even though he was not one to miss out, he had had better dalliances outside the city gates for sure, even though the court was sporting some nice adornments. It was a sad side effect of having a child king that there was little room and need for a whole lot of court ladies. And there was just a difference between landed and urbane gentry, a difference that in effect often made all the difference. Not to mention of course those grisettes flocking the cities… they were fine for a quick relief and fun, but half of them he wouldn’t even dare touch!
“You should come to Brittany once”, he suggested with a devilish smile. “Cidre and women are both exquisite and … tingly.” During his leaves of absence and visits to his father, he had made many fond and exciting memories indeed. He loved the pulse of the city, but Paris could also be an ugly hag, showing her pockmarked face to those who dared to look.

Victor seemed to have followed his train of thoughts, and at the comment about the Tuileries, Lucien could only nod in approvement. It was truly too bad that they could no longer have the young king hold court at this marvellous, grand place, where the sorrows of the city would not reach you. “You and me both”, he replied with an indignant snort. “Not to mention that the Tuileries are a pain in the posterior to defend should things really heat up!” Sometimes Lucien was glad he was not the one mainly concerned with the king’s safety, for he was sure it would give him many sleepless nights. The people had wanted their king to be more ‘reachable’ and ‘closer to his subjects’ after the blasted first revolution… and they had made him far too ‘reachable’ indeed. “Seriously, who do they think they are?! It is God’s will that there are the demanding and the serving, who are they to assume what is ours by divine right?! Fools…!”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

“Tingly.” Victor smirked, repeating the younger officer's choice of word. Though he had traveled through part of France, at least, in his year with the regiment before the continuation of his studies at Saumur, he had never gone to Brittany. Perhaps, when leave time or another reassignment of command allowed it, he would have to venture there. He'd had one or two young Bretons under his command, but they had mainly been peasant boys. Decent enough soldiers, though like any peasant far below him.

Victor had not made a habit of returning to his father's estate during leaves of absence for years. He went back from time to time, of course—but there were more pleasures to be found away from familial obligations, and the old man had never held his youngest son in the same regard as the older boys. Victor had always been too wild, too difficult to control, wasting his potential. Never mind that his military career was already more successful than those of either of his brothers. The eldest had never entered the army at all; the other still lingered with a lieutenancy at thirty-five.

“I dislike the city for fighting in general,” Victor admitted. He was a cavalry officer, and although horse soldiers could be highly mobile, the tactics he had been taught were not designed for narrow, winding city streets. They could not use the horses to their best advantage, and might be forced to function as naught but glorified footsoldiers. Their speed was wasted, there would never be enough room to properly execute maneuvers, and the barricades the rabble would certainly erect would limit the effectiveness of any sort of charge.

“Fools with short memories,” Victor answered with a sneer at the thought. “They had their little revolution, and now things have been set right. Through no small effort on our part,” he added. “But what more can we expect from the rabble? If it were up to me I would say we need another foreign war.” Such a thing might bring the French populace back into line, but more importantly it would tap into the young generation of men that might otherwise clog the Paris streets with their chanting and barricades.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Lucien returned the smirk Victor was giving him, and added an encouraging nod. “You’d know what I mean once you try. It’s an… experience for sure!” That reminded him… his last dalliance was a little while off, and he started to miss the attention of a woman – or girl, he was not picky as long as the girl already showed some female attributes. Maybe the soon-to-be masquerade would bring a little entertainment into his life concerning that. He would have to see… but the sheer idea of a masquerade held such high possibilities on that field… a mask provided mystery, the thrill of the unknown, and you could get away with so much more while undisclosing your identity. Yes, he would definitely look forward to the Masquerade.

He could see very well where Victor was coming from with fighting in the streets, and he pushed the thoughts of leisure from his mind for now. This was really something to think on, and as much as Lucien liked to spend his time doing unreasonable things and having a good time, he also had been forged into a soldier at Saint-Cyr. He had witnessed the difficulties of that blasted half-baked revolution two years ago, when it came to combat with revolutionary scum, and he had fought against them in those forever damned three days they now dared to call Glorious. He had also fought for the cause of the Chouannerie of course, but those had been battles fought not so much with open war weapons.

“You can maybe ride them down and form a barrier in those narrow streets”, he mused. “But the strength of cavalry always lay in the field charge, as you well know of course. But maybe it’s all hot air and nothing behind it.” It was possible… it would surely be better for all of them if the people of Paris did not cause an unnecessary ruckus so shortly after their last rise-up. What did they complain about anyway? Henri was a lovely little child king, almost to be called cute in his earnesty and his strive to not make any faults, why wouldn’t the hearts of the people go out to him? Were they still going on about the poverty and all those things? They shouldn’t harass the high borns so boldly, then maybe they wouldn’t meet so many repercussions. You couldn’t pass the Rue de Saint-Denis with a carriage without having to fear for your dear life these days!

“A foreign war…” Lucien gave a low chuckle, patting his horse’s neck as it pranced, irritated by a reason he could not discern. “You know, that’s actually not such a bad idea. How about we invade the German Confederation again? They’re getting too pert again for my taste!”
If the people of France had to worry about sending their sons away, they would be fighting FOR France instead of against it. As long as there was a foreign enemy, they would not find anything wrong with how things were done in their own country. It was an easy calculation… but how to convince a child king to go to war? “You know… if the Chouannerie agreed to this… they could make it palatable to a child’s tongue somehow.” Lucien would hate to give up his life of leisure and go to war in a foreign country. He had never particularly like the idea of a messy battlefield, being more the one for personal fights, but of course, when his country called to defend it against enemies, he would obey.

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

“Even if it is hot air, something needs to be done.” The longer the people in the street were allowed to carry on as they had, the riskier things became. The king was young—it would be easy, fatally easy, for him to appear weak. Helpless. Vulnerable to the anger of the streets. The steam would build, and eventually the roiling cauldron that was Paris could boil over and scald them all. “They've begun to grow too bold.”

Riding men down in the street was simple enough, but he suspected the rebels—like cockroaches—would hide themselves well, armed with whatever came to hand. The filth of the streets would have the advantage in finding the quickest, most sheltered passage through a battlefield cluttered with buildings and improvised fortifications. They would have to watch where their own casualties fell, or else their weapons might be taken and used against them. A single wounded horse, panicked and trapped in a tight, twisting street, could interrupt the movement of entire units until put out of its misery.

He did not want to have to deal with a revolt in the city.

Victor could see, from the lieutenant's chuckle and the expression on his face, that he liked the idea of war. Perhaps not without reservations—like most young officers, he preferred the trappings of a life of leisure. He couldn't look down on him for this; it was only natural, and Victor himself shared the feeling—though he doubted the officers' tents would ever run dry of women and wine in the quick, victorious war he suggested.

“The Germans, the English, the Spanish for all I care! It matters little whom, as long as the campaign is successful.” The lieutenant's suggestion was perhaps the soundest. They would have to deal with neither the Channel nor the Pyrenees. Losing a war would hurt them almost as much as not fighting one at all. People would call the king unprepared, foolish, nothing but a child. To be pitied, perhaps, but pity hadn't kept the last boy who might have been king from death in the prisons of a former infestation of republican lice. “What boy doesn't play at war?”

The details, however, were the difference between a boy and a king. The king's soldiers were made of flesh, the boy's of lead. If Henri remained hesitant, it would take only a small incident to force his hand. A raid across the border, in secret, to antagonize the German Confederation. Repeated if necessary, until a counterattack was launched. Ideal work for fast-moving light cavalry, with reinforcements ready at the French border. The king would be bound, by honor and duty, to respond in kind.

"A cause can always be produced."

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Too bold indeed! Lucien gnashed his teeth when he only so much as thought about the things the scum of the streets were daring to pull on the nobles these days! Not even his uniform did ellicit any respect from them anymore! When he had ridden to meet up with Victor, some scoundrel had even thrown something at him, something ghastly he had picked off the street and which had looked a lot like rotten cabbage. The gall! Gladly it hadn’t hit him, but it made you think you were commissioned to the stocks!! And that him, future Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr and Lieutenant of the King’s Army! He had committed the man’s face to memory though and had appeased himself with the thought that given time and opportunity, this man would pay. Dearly. He would like the sound of this man’s voice shrieking and wailing for mercy. Just that there would be no mercy. Not with Lucifer, Sans-Grâce…!

“We will cut them back down to size, you’ll see!” he snarled, raising his chin. “They’re no match for us, not even with the advantage of a fight within city walls. This shall but remain a sidenote, even if it comes to a little uprising. How long has the last revolution lasted? Three days! If they even dare to attempt another one, it’ll be over in less than a day!” He let the anger that had accumulated in him seep out of his system with a long sigh and a deep intake of breath as his eyes slowly began to see the nature surrounding Paris. Peaceful, beautiful even. Not to be compared with the stink and the dirt of the streets they had just left.

Lucien had decided on the German Confederation instinctively, thinking back on the stories he had heard about the wars under the Emperor Napoleon. Before his fall, he had been an excellent commander, and the French had made the German princetoms bleed, cutting their souvereignity by rearranging and combining their territories until they were hardly recognizable. They had even stolen the capital Quadriga on the Brandenburg Gate to humiliate the Prussians after the Battle of Jena-Auerstett. Lucien’s father had been there, and he remembered well his father’s anger even as Lucien had been a little boy, as they had had to return it a few years later after the Emperor’s defeat. But attacking the Germans was of course also practical, and the idea started to grow on him more and more.

He laughed outright when Victor made that diplomatical comment about a cause always being easy to produce, since he knew what the Captain was getting at. It was the most ancient game of warfare, and it would probably be still succesful when they all had long since turned to dust. “Of course, it would be THEM starting the fight. We’re always JUST defending. I don’t see little Henri to be quite such a hotspur as to want to see repercussions for a German attack right away, but he is eager to prove himself as capable of being king. A glorious king… which child doesn’t want to be a hero.”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

The younger officer was right, of course, that the rebellious rabble of the Paris streets would, naturally, be defeated. Victor was confident that the king, the Chouannerie, and all of their supporters would win any battle that might come. Still, a fight within the city walls could bleed them. Whatever their impertinence, there were more rats in Paris than eagles. Suppressing an uprising would be simple enough, but they would have to be smart to prevent it from merely creating martyrs to anger the rabble further.

“Any uprising will be crushed, but I will refrain from predicting the number of days.” He smirked. If some young revolutionaire were to hear any prediction at all, he suspected the rest of their kind would suddenly become absolutely determined to hold out longer. It was the nature of creatures born low down the scale to scrabble after such paltry, dishonorable distinctions as resisting the king for a few more days before being torn apart by canister shot.

Victor relaxed on his horse, giving the animal its head as the road the rode down was fairly clear and the animal showed no indication that it wanted to diverge from the path. The little conflict between the two horses seemed to have cooled, for Victor's horse, at least, had apparently begun to ignore the other.

“I have no doubt that he wants to be a hero, and it is this assumption we must operate on.” Yes, the idea of war was a splendid one, and could well be the salvation of an honorable, proper France. “Once the German Confederation has attacked, he cannot allow the enemy's aggression to continue unchecked, or the next thing anyone knows they will be marching on Paris. Any king to permit that is a poor king indeed.” He grinned, knowing that his companion would understand. Any aggression would be on the French side, but there would never be reason for the king to hear even a whisper of that.

“A few raids across the border should be sufficient tinder, light cavalry work.” He corrected his horse's movements a little, guiding it away from a line of low shrubs the animal seemed interested in sampling. “Of course, he must be prevented from speaking with any German emissary until he has heard our reports first. Everyone knows that from them he will hear nothing but lies.”

Ironic, really, that their deception would rely on making the young king believe that everything else was deceptive. They were running ahead of themselves; a lieutenant and a captain, neither of them with the rank and position to force such an attack. But each man had his own connections in the Chouannerie, and Victor himself could have the ear of the king.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Not making any predictions about the uprising might be the prudent way, but it surely was not the way of Lucien’s liking. He thought that refraining from being confident in favour of prudence was a sign of weakness, he did not think that the people should be spared the inevitable reality. After all, the whole of France had learned of the previous uprisings. The knew the signs now, could read them and react to them. What had caught the world completely unawares fourty years ago and had sent it into a kind of stupor until it was too late, was a known evil now. The people, the scum, they had tasted blood once, and they had liked the taste of rebellion. Gladly the last uprising had been subdued quickly two years ago, but apparently kicked dogs had learned to get back up and try again.

“They are far from organized”, he claimed with a dismissive gesture. “A few hotspurs that will learn their lesson. Or they’ll get another toy to play with anyway.” Lucien was confident, perhaps overconfident, but he would not want to join the ranks of those who were afraid of the lower classes. They were plenty, yes, but they were stupid as well and had their own fights amongst them. It would need a very good leader figure to rally them all underneath one banner, and as everyone was on the lookout for such a leader to get rid of him, Lucien was sure any uprising could only be a flash in the pan.

Even though they were not the ones to decide anything at all in this realm, Lucien liked the play of thoughts he had with Victors. You could see and feel the military breeding in them at Saint-Cyr, and they both knew that their thoughts were valid, owning the sheer confidence of noble officers that one day and to the right ear their words would be heard. Oh, he liked that thought indeed. What would Sylvie, for example, say to these thoughts. He wasn’t one to crave for her approval like a slimey bootlicker or pathetic wimp, but he’d still like to see that flash in her eyes and that cruel smile on her lips when she found a plan to her liking. If the Marquise was displeased, she punished, but if she was pleased, she could reward. And it were the rewards he was looking forward to. Very… special rewards. If he came to her with a full-fledged plan to feed to the young king to prevent a filthy, unnecessary uprising… he was sure to get a reward. Her family after all had suffered from the aftermaths of such an uprising.

“Cavalry work…” he repeated with a smirk and a nod. “I see we already have a volunteer here for planning such a coup, don’t we, Captain?” He trusted the man’s expertize concerning such raids without any doubt, knowing him to be a man of consideration. The poor Germans would walk into a trap with eyes wide open. After their defeat of Napoleon they would be eager to teach France another lesson – just that this time there would be no defeat. It was a win-win situation, maybe France could even gain back some border areas lost in previous wars, making the Rhine once again the natural border up until The Netherlands…
“I am sure the diplomatic obstacles can be taken care of smoothly. Maybe the German Emissaries could get lost… or simply… occupied.” Lucien himself would have a few ideas how to ‘occupy’ someone who ought never reach the young king. And he was sure that Sylvie, if she ever heard of it, would have some good ideas, too. That woman’s mind was a deadly abyss.

“A lie is only a lie when detected as such”, he smirked, then reined his stallion in as they had entered a little clearing in front of a small forest. “This looks like a nice spot, don’t you think…?”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Victor knew quite well that the lower-class masses of Paris were disorganized. Given time, however, and even the slightest taste of success... there was no telling how they might choose to regroup. “Someone is feeding them philosophy,” he said with derision. “That is the arm we must sever if we're going to put down a revolt instead of prevent one.”

It was outlandish to imagine that the filth of Paris was hovering on the edge of uprising uninvited. The working classes were overwhelmingly illiterate, and bound to their labor or they would starve. How could such a mass rise up and fight without killing itself in the process? They were only a step above animals, and Victor knew horses well enough to understand that they would not throw themselves into battle without some external compulsion. No, there were others tangled into this bloody affair, and there would be no killing the snake without destroying its head.

Who that head was, Victor had no indication. There might be many, for all he knew—and that was to be hoped both for against. Several commanders would cause the uprising to be even more disorganized, quicker yet to crush—but more meant that even if one was killed, five more might go to ground. As much as he enjoyed the hunt, the captain had no desire for that hunt to take him into such places as the Paris sewers—where such rats were sure to flee.

He laughed at the lieutenant's suggestion that he was volunteering to lead the raid, amused and knowing. “I have my orders, Lieutenant,” he smirked. “But if the king should issue new... who am I to refuse?” He would not mind seeing action again, and would prefer to spend the summer dancing along the German border with saber in hand than smelling the putrid fumes of Paris.

Even if the boy-king chose instead to retain Victor as an instructor, he knew there were a hundred other officers loyal to France and the King who could carry out such raids. He had befriended them at Saumur, at Saint-Cyr, at officers' balls and even the social events of his civilian youth. He knew Lucien must have similar connections, even if the young man was not in the cavalry himself. He wondered if it stung his well-developed sense of pride to be denied the extra dash of romanticism that came with introducing oneself as a cavalry officer.

“And there is no lie when it becomes the truth.” He liked how he thought, at least in this—so far he had seen no indication of whether his mind's stratagems would benefit him on the battlefield as well. “There are a thousand ways to... mislay... an emissary.” They would not necessarily have to kill any of the German diplomats, they might even provide them with the best their hospitality had to offer—but they could see to it, easily, that they should never reach the king's ear.

“A lovely spot.” He pulled his horse up to a halt, dismounting smoothly and patting the animal's neck. He regretted, momentarily, not bringing along some sort of aide to see to their mounts for them. But then, had he brought one along, their conversation would have had to be more guarded. With a hint of an annoyed sigh, he set up a picket line for the horses between two trees at the edge of the clearing.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Lucien suppressed an annoyed groan. Philosophy!!! Of all the things you could waste your time with, philosophy was probably the most useless, and that was an understatement! He had never had much sense and time for it, but he knew enough to realize the danger that lay in ‘feeding’ people this kind of talk. People with too much time at hand had one day apparently found out that the dominion of the better classes over the lower classes was by no means God’s will, but that everyone had been born equal. The sheer thought of it: Equal! To put him, Lucien de La Tour d’Azyr, soon to be Marquise and high ranking Officer of the King’s Army on the same level as a dirty peasant or some street flouncy ! Most of those men writing such nonsense really must have had a few too many drinks in their lifetime!

“Damned be such lunatics as Voltaire and Rousseau!” he growled. “I am ashamed of calling them amongst the great race that is France. They drag their proud heritage into the sod, if you ask me!” For what were they making of the land that had seen the longest continuation of dynasties without equal in the rest of the knownworld? The Capetien dynasty had prevailed storms after storms during more than 800 years, and only the rotten thoughts of philosophers, feeding the mind of those too stupid to understand it any way had brought it down in only a few short years time. But then again, Lucien was no one to cry over spilt milk, he didn’t think much of vendettas that clung to the past, he rather dealt with the problems of the moment – and he would make sure that history would NOT repeat itself.

He found part of his good humour again when the Captain made that elusive comment about ‘mislaying’ an emissary. The sheer idea of this euphemism, mislaying a person like you would mislay a book or a glove, made him smirk and chuckle darkly. “And as with all mislaid things… you only find the one you’ve been searching for much much later… when they’re no longer important.” He didn’t really care about what might happen to any German emissary or not. They had been without mercy on the French after Napoleon’s defeat and there were still too many debts to be paid and too many things to be settled. One German more or less, what was the problem, if the fate of France was at stake?! “But let’s wait for the right moment to possibly feed this plan to someone’s attentive ear.” For now, nothing of that was more than a castle in the clouds.

After dismounting himself, he watched Victor setting up a picket line. Normally, as the lower rank, Lucien would have felt obliged to do the necessary work, but as the man was a cavalry officer, things were slightly different, and he couldn’t say he was averse to that. Once the line was set up, he tied the reins of his horse to it loosely, so that the mount would still have some space to graze, after that he turned to Victor, hand lazily settled on the hilt of his rapier. “So, Captain, what do you say? Shall we let politics be politics for a little while and concentrate on our… practical work?”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

“One Xenophon is worth more to me than ten Rousseaus,” Victor agreed with a nod. The old Greek's writings, ancient as they were, still held much valuable advice for the cavalryman. Though these new, rebellious philosophers might be dangerous, he did not necessarily see them as a disgrace to France. No, they could easily have their place—but only around the king himself. Even his advisors might be corrupted by their ideas. Other areas of philosophy held more potential; years of having military strategy drilled into his head told him that thought was not of itself the dangerous thing.

But there was a reason that the planning of a battle was placed in the hands of the officers, bound to a chain of command and sworn oaths. The soldiers, the commoners, had only to do as they were told. Disciplined soldiers were a pleasure to command; Victor saw no reason while a disciplined populace should not be a pleasure for the king to rule. There were many things that might have a place in France, but only within the hierarchy and order of society.

And to those of lesser birth who wished to make something of themselves? The army did provide its opportunities for those who distinguished themselves, regardless of their origins. Let them serve with loyalty, with honor, with bravery—instead of howling in the streets like wild dogs.

There was wisdom in the lieutenant's words. To lose the hypothetical German was a stimulating thought, one that the higher ranks of the Chouannerie would be glad to hear—but one for which it was neither the time nor the place to discuss in full.

“Yes,” Victor responded with the shadow of a smile, transforming into another smirk. Politics was never intended to be their milieu; less even for Victor than for Lucien. The lieutenant stood to inherit his father's lands and titles, Victor did not. “Let us be men of the sword. Politics strays dangerously close to philosophy, does it not?”

Of course, their form of politics had been something far closer to scheming than to philosophy—there was little ideology behind their plans, beyond monarchism and, at least in Victor's case, a certain sincere loyalty to the king.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Lucien vaguely remembered having heard about Xenophon in his studies at Saint-Cyr, but he had never been so invested in the man as the captain had – and that was scarcely a wonder, since Xenophon’s military writings had been all or at least mostly about cavalry. Since Saint-Cyr however had been founded and initialized by one of the greatest military strategists of France’s own time, their study of tactics hadn’t been always about what the ancient warlords said. “Sometimes you don’t need to go thousands of years back to find a genius, though I am glad Napoleon wasn’t a philosopher as well.” Lucien scoffed. “He was a parvenu alright, seeking his chances from the lowest… but you can’t deny his military brilliance. But Russia broke his back.”

He had heard his father speak often about the Napoleonic Wars, since his father had gotten HIS military prowess in the field, not sitting and studying in an academy. A man could rise to fame and money through war, but he also could get as easily killed. It was not always aptitude and skill that decided over life or death, it was also just luck sometimes, and that could make you mad. When on the field, you couldn’t do with much scruples, but that was something he was the least worried about. He had no qualms to kill, he would be able to defend his own hide just as well. Let the low footsoldiers be the cannon-fodder, he would not end dying in his own excrements!

The young man shook off this not very pleasant thoughts and focussed instead on the present. Captain D’Anthès had agreed on his subtle proposition and that was all invitation Lucien needed. This was not a duel of honors, since as far as he knew no provocation had been sounded, they would simply train. But that was nice for a change as well. And who knew, a little saber-rattling as a warm-up would never go amiss, as long as both knew they esteemed each other high enough to not take those slights too seriously.
“They do stray in that direction sadly”, he commented and drew his rapier, making a few jabs and leaps into thin air to test his muscles, then brought the blade in the traditional ‘first position’, his left arm raised in an angle behind him, fingers elegantly put in pairs. “Because politicians of these centuries tend to be dreamers. Even though the times call for action, they only think about lunatic ideals and how to make the world a ‘better place’. En garde, Captain!”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

“I admire Napoleon, of course,” Victor replied with a nod. The Corsican had done much to recommend him to all of France. “A rare military genius.” He stretched, loosening his muscles for sparring. “But what can be said about the Russians? Their country is as wild as they are, and that's what defeated him.” Not that the Russians didn't have their merits; their rulers, at least, seemed generally to know how to keep their peasants in line. And it had been right that those rebels of 1825 and their demands for a constitution had been met with the executioner's rope and terms of exile. Still, he preferred not to deal with such Tatars.

“An officer should not be a philosopher, unless his philosophy is but military strategy.” That was the flaw of even Xenophon, he supposed, though Victor's use for the Greek was tied more to his writings on the training of horses than on any other philosophical assertions. Even priests tended to be a bit more philosophy than Victor could swallow, especially when they asked for honest confessions.

He let the lieutenant's last comments go unanswered. They were valid, and the two officers were much in agreement on many things—but the time was for action, and not for this continued talk. His body ached for the exercise after so much time in the city, and his lungs rejoiced in the clean air.

He drew his saber smoothly, glad this was not a serious duel. The practice would do him good, allow him to stretch his limbs and test his blade against that of a man trained to where fencing became an art. It was a pleasure his new appointment did not typically afford him.

His pose was perhaps not as elegant and fine as Lucien's, but Victor was not a bad fencer. He had been taught the fundamentals as a boy and had learned further as he grew, though his real talents had always been in the saddle. He raised his sword into a more or less defensive position, watching his opponent closely for a moment to try to get some feel for his strategy.