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Heavenly Father, it’s me. Étienne.
I’m getting better aren’t I? I’m not in some sort of crisis, no one is in mortal peril, and as you can see I am neither gambling nor tempting a lady to part ways with her virtue. I’m rather tamely kneeling before my humble barracks bunk, content after a well-deserved night of fellowship and good Burgundy. I just wanted to thank—
No Antoine I will not wrap this up quickly! I am praising the Almighty God for all his blessings you ungrateful wretch! If you weren’t a terrible Catholic you’d be doing the same and thanking the good Lord that we are Musketeers! We are young, we are dashing, and we are living the lives that every child in France dreams of! If you object to my prayers so vehemently then I invite you to stuff a pillow over your head and go straight to Hell!
But I digress. Good Lord, thank you for keeping us in health, in happiness, and in the service of His Majesty. And thank you for that most excellent wine, it was well-grown and well-vinted.
If I were to ask for one thing, it would be to please make Gaston less of an imbecile.
I know what you’re thinking, Lord. Gaston son of Athos is not a bad sort. And I agree, he is brave and true and all that, and Lord he actually has been doing well with responsibility. He deserved to be promoted today, and for us to celebrate him! But he’s been quite annoying of late. He’s been mooning over Valentine ever since she was definitely going to kill him in that duel. It’s been quite obvious to anyone with eyes and a working brain that he’s been smitten all through the debacle with Villeroi and Lady Bolton and really it’s only gotten worse—
Gaston, I will not ‘shut it’! See, even Pierre agrees with me! And he’s been on assignment in Brittany for most of the time! Lord, tonight Valentine d’Artagnan—savior of France and most devastating woman with a sword I will ever see—asked Gaston-the-idiot to dance at Planchet’s. And what did he do? He gaped like a carp flopping on the deck and said he couldn’t dance with a fellow servant of the Crown. Damn it, that’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard and God you know full well I hid in confessionals as a child! Couldn’t dance? We’re French! We’ll dance with the Devil and all his armies if there’s a tune and a thimbleful of wine. Fight me if you want Gaston but you know it’s true. She knew it was a piss-poor excuse and I don’t blame her for being hurt and angry.
And don’t tell me ‘that’s not how that works’! If she waited around for you to ask her to dance we’d all be toothless gray-haired old men! I’m not a genius Gaston, but I know that if the woman of your dreams asks you to dance then by God you dance! And if you break her heart we will all truss you up and roast you over a slow fire at Planchet’s!
Commander D’artagnan! Uhhh…I’m so sorry for disturbing you, sir. We were…we were having a philosophical discussion. Yes I know it’s late, sir. That’s the best time for philosophical discussions. My most profuse apologies, we’ll save this for tomorrow at a more amenable hour. Oh, we’re having extra drills tomorrow? Excellent, sir, you’re quite right. We better get some rest. Good night, sir!
So Lord, for the sake of peace and concision, here it is. My friend Valentine is insulted because my friend Gaston is an idiot. If you can assist in this matter we would all really appreciate it.
Oh, and Pierre says he will do twenty Hail Marys if he could just get the chance to speak with the tailor’s daughter Lisette. Amen.