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My dear friend Arnaud,
You will be happy to know that the Prussians have treated me quite well during my time in Kaub, with the Mr. Blumenwald I mentioned in my previous letter and I having grown fond of each other. It seems that he will even let me call him on first name basis now, despite his initial—
Arnaud crumbles the parchment, tossing it across the bloody counter and picking up the knife once more, the cleaver brought down on the fish’s neck with a heavy thud. All of Jean’s letters of late were rambling on and on about this Blumenwald now.
He makes me tea just the right way this, he is so patient with my faulty German that, oh Karl is simply so sincere this. What was wrong with Jean, to be writing like some man in love? All because the Prussian supposedly attended opera and knew latin?
The fish lays helpless and lifeless with eyes wide and cloudy as he commenced to pull out its spine.
It makes the ever calm and rational Jean look to be in some sort of fever!
The intestines are roughly strung out, each pulled taunt. The fish is quickly thrown into a boiling pot, Arnaud breathing in the smell deeply. Thank god that the so called “blight” had taken away all the young men. Otherwise Arnaud would find them all clamoring around, greedy little hands trying to steal cuts of crab and sprigs of rosemary. Yes, it is quiet now, with only the gulls crying out along the beaches and a wood pigeon cooing for its mate nearby.
Perhaps he was over reacting. Suspicions and ghosts were all too common for Arnaud; Jean often said to “slow down” and “use your rational mind my friend” or something of the other. If this recent fit be a fever of the mind then Jean would quickly sort it out. Surely. It was…odd to hear Jean speak of anyone with such admiration. No, it was nothing. A fluke, a misplaced interest.
He sits in silence for a few more moments, closing his eyes to let his heart and mind slow down. To think that Jean would nurse a deep friendship with a man of a foreign company aligned against France…was ridiculous. Yes, ridiculous. Nothing more than another ghost of paranoia plaguing his mind.
The foul odor of something burning quickly pulls Arnaud back to the present. The fish is taking his revenge by sinking to the bottom of the pot and burning his scales to a char. Cursing, Arnaud saves the unburnt pieces, scraping off any remaining ashes. A second of disappointed quiet. The ambassador would have to do with a stew.
“Ah. How kind.” The American’s French is halting, slow.
A plate of the stew sits in front of Crawford, the damp air pressing down on the both of them.Crawford peers down at the dish in front of him face blank as ever. “And this fish is…?”
“It is bass.” Arnaud’s scowl deepens, Crawford looking down at the food again. “Thank you.” He places his spoon down. A moment of silence passes, the only sound being the calling of far away gulls. “And there is no uh,” The ambassador coughs. “No alternative?"
The thought of slamming Crawford’s face into the bowl crosses Arnaud’s mind, but he paces away from the ambassador. “Do you want something to drink?” He turns sharply to the cabinet with three bottles of wine, opting to open the doors of the wooden piece instead of turning to face Crawford.
Jean had told him about how he had needed to be more patient or something of the other no? Then again Jean had always been the more cultured one of the two especially since he had started spending time with the Prussian officer. Jean would have been a much better man for this, with his meek demeanor. But no, the bastard had to go and volunteer for infantry instead, and spend his time getting served fine meats and teas with that Prussian.
Arnaud’s chest tightens, a certain string in his lungs pulls taunt. Yes, this middle one would do. Wine sloshes against dark glass sides roughly, dust filling the air as he slams the cabinet door shut.
“No, no I’m alright.” The ambassador’s eyes follow Arnaud from underneath the black tophat.
He promptly ignores Crawford’s request and pours two glasses anyway, cork popping loudly. “Tell me,” The French man tips the glass back, a bitter taste filling his mouth as he ignores Crawford. “Do you not have anything other to do than watch me eat?”
“No.” Arnaud growls, pouring another glass for himself. Decorum be damned, this ambassador was sure to leave in a year anyway. “The coast line has been searched already, and I am supposed to stay here and watch you.”
The man clad in black and dark red pauses, coolly reaching for the wine glass. “Hm.” The liquid swirls as Crawford rotates the flute, red blending into black.
What a rich color that man wears, Arnaud narrows his eyes at Crawford, that red. He supposed it was natural of an ambassador to don nice clothes, but surely it had struck the American by now that the emperor was too busy to speak to him.
“I must ask,” Crawford takes a sip from the glass, the mesmerizing red slipping away. “If most of the officers here are like you. So…”
The ambassador places the flute down. “Flippant.”
“Forgive me if I am not enthused to spend my hours with a stranger rather than in the comfort of my home.” Arnaud snaps. The yelp of a gull is heard from one of the recently mortared windows; it seems two of them are fighting for the abandoned carcass of a crab.
Crawford tsks, muttering something in that blasted tongue English.
“And I presume Talleyrand is…” He waves his hand. “Preoccupied. With whatever…sickness is spreading across Russia.”
Arnaud says nothing in response, staring at the sea behind Crawford. “Alright then.” Crawford sighs heavily, tilting his glass back in similar fashion to Arnaud a moment earlier. “Here, slide the bottle over my man.”
The two nurse their disappointment and sorrows for a good hour, cheeks becoming flushed. However, the quiet is ended when the American chuckles at Arnaud’s angered expression. “An angry hen you are…what is it that has you all twisted up like this?”
Arnaud has drunken far more of the bottle than Crawford, and his vision sways. “A friend of mine,” Arnaud waves his hand, speech slurring. “Has gone off to Prussia and now speaks like a man bewitched.”
“Hm. Military?”
“Infantry.”
“And now he has gone and fallen in love with a foreign princess in some fantastical castle.”
Arnaud snorts at the comparison, clinging to his flute glass. Ah, what an intoxicating red…if only Arnaud could drown himself in it. Crawford smirks at Arnaud’s response, leaning across the table to pour another glass. “Right, am I? The man must be a fool if he is swayed so easily. And I suppose he listens to none of your warnings against this seductress.” The French man only grumbles at his, snatching the wine bottle away from the American. “It doesn’t make him a fool to…eh, appreciate someone’s company.” Just that it mattered who it was. Anyone but that stupid Prussian officer. Even a prostitute would make a partner.
“Perhaps appreciate it a little too much.” Crawford laughs now, observing the way Arnaud’s face grows a healthy pink. “Come now, I’ve gotten the other two right, this must be correct as well.” Arnaud does not respond.
“Besides,” Crawford’s eyes sharpened now, looking down at Arnaud from his taller position. “Even if he does turn to be a Benedict Arnold then you seem to the kind of man to take revenge.”
A slow blinking in response from Arnaud, the Frenchman slumped on the table. “A…Benedict Arnold?” The American tsks, placing his flute down. “Now, from just three decades ago there was an American military general…” Crawford waves his hand upon seeing the quick glazing over of Arnaud’s eyes. “The point is that he’s a traitor.”
The wine is really catching up to Arnaud now, the Frenchman taking a few moments to process the accusation. ”Jean is no traitor, how dare you—!” Arnaud lurches forward, only to have Crawford slip out of his grasp as the ambassador stumbles out of his chair.
The murmuring of English is heard from Crawford as Arnaud slumps, a hesitant hand nudging the Frenchman’s body. “Ah, too much to drink…” Crawford frowns, peering at Arnaud. “You have a quick temper don’t you.” Arnaud doesn’t respond, his mind swirling between anger at Jean and the already forming headache. The American pauses, that deep red filling Arnaud’s eyes as Crawford leaned down to examine Arnaud’s face. “Now don’t pass out on me.” He pulls Arnaud back to lean into the chair, the scowl on the American’s face deepening. Another moment of silence. “I’ll leave you here, you can get back on your own no?” Arnaud groans in response, with Crawford sighing upon hearing Arnaud’s utterance.
The ambassador sat heavily back down at his own chair, opting to grab the whole bottle instead of the small flute. “Well, I guess I might as well get drunk as well…”
Arnaud doesn’t respond, slowly blinking as darkness clouded his vision.
Jean was no traitor or, Bendict whatever Crawford had said…surely that Karl wouldn’t sway Jean to such extremes…even if Jean—no. No, it was…Arnaud’s lids droop and he falls asleep to the rocking of a red sea of wine.