I had the idea for this after Jessica sent me a newspaper article today.

I'm hoping to sneak in a short, short piece now and again to get caught up a bit. Look for a full story later in the week.

---

Vouvoient

Lucien, lying on the pile of filthy hay on the floor of their cell, lolled his head over towards Marceau.

"We're done for," he said.

"Stop your whining. We aren't dead yet," answered Marceau.

"Not yet," Lucien sulked. "They're going to do us just like they did ol' Marie. It's the maiden for us."

Marceau heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes. "If we are doomed to the guillotine, I don't want my last hours to be filled with your bellyaching. And the bureaucrats may yet lose our execution orders."

"We're going to die. My hay is full of fleas."

Marceau tried to slap his hands on his head, a habitual gesture of frustration, honed by years of conversation with Lucien. He succeeded only in rattling the chains holding him upright against the wall.

"At least you can scratch."

The day before, Marceau had tried to bite one of the guards, receiving only the irons and a few missing teeth in return.

"And bring me some water, would you?" He added. "It's thirsty business standing all day long."

"My legs are too weak. They don't feed us properly. It's your own fault, anyway. Why did you attack that guard anyway? You wouldn't have gotten out."

"I'm too slow to catch the mice. You see, you're right about the food at least. I never knew what hunger was until my stomach growled until it couldn't anymore."

Lucien rolled over away from his friend.

"Don't talk to me about food. I've suffered worse than you. I used to be fat."

They could barely make each other out in the dim light. The window on the door to their cell was smaller than the saucer and the guards kept lit only a few smokey torches in the hallway.

"They can't even feed us decent bread. Isn't bread and water a prisoner's right? I thought our chums the Jacques legislated cheap bread. Quite the conjurer's trick that one."

Lucien clamped his hands over his ears.

Marceau tried to dose a bit while he waited for Lucien to relax, but the muscles in his shoulders ached too much. And when he came close to nodding off, his knees buckled and the jarring of the chains woke him up again. A physician once told him you could die from going without sleep for more than three days. But surely they wouldn't let that happen; public executions were too popular with the commoners. He sighed again, quieter this time. Who could possibly prefer bloodlust over debate? They really were feral. The wild dogs had taken over.

"Although if we were so superior, how did they win? Eh, Lucien? Lucien!"

"What are you going on about?"

"Do you remember my uncle's estate? The banquets we had there?" He spoke almost to himself.

"I told you, I don't want to talk about food."

"What are we going to talk about then in this place? Women? A decent meal is far more likely. My uncle's cook made the most wonderful wild pig. He was Prussian and knew his spices. I hope he made it out of the country. I don't imagine the Prussians too popular these days. As bad as having blue blood in your veins. Did you ever get to try to his stuffed quail?" Marceau tried to lick his lips but had barely enough saliva in his mouth to even slightly moisten them.

"Shut up would you."

"And the wine. I can't remember the last time I had decent wine. How can they consider themselves civilized if wine is so hard to find?"

"Shut up!"

Lucien jumped to his feet and took several lurching steps towards Marceau before stopping, doubled with from a stomach cramp.

"As long as you're up, can you bring me some water? If Jesus were here he could make us wine."

Lucien cursed and kicked over the bowl of water the two of them had been nursing for days.

"Well that was shortsighted of you."

"Pipe down the two of you!"

They heard the jangling of keys.

"Now you've done it," hissed Marceau.

The door swung open, letting in a little more light. Lucien was almost knocked down as the two guards shoved someone else into the cell.

The door slammed shut.

"Oh look, Lucien a new guest."

The lump on the ground moaned. He was shirtless and if the light had been better, Lucien and Marceau would have seen the fresh welts on his back.

"They could have given us a fresh bowl of water," Lucien said.

"I'd nearly forgotten the word fresh," responded Marceau, "I barely remember what it means."

The new prisoner struggled to a sitting position.

"You certainly don't have an aristocratic posture," said Marceau. "But who does after beating? And you don't look nearly indignant enough to find yourself in this place."

"I'm not of the aristocracy." The new fellow sounded miserable. "I got lost looking for my hotel."

"They through you in jail for that?" Mareau should his head. "The guillotine is getting greedy."

The shirtless man threw his hands up in the air. "I used vous instead of tu when I asked a gendarme for directions. They threw me in here for grammar."

"Poor bastard," said Marceau. "At least Lucien and I committed real crimes like being born rich."

Lucien trudged back to his pile of hay. "He's won't be getting the guillotine though. A year or two in jail at the most."

"Say," said Marceau, "have you even had stuffed quail?"

Author's note: Apparently during the French Revolution they really did try to ban vous! Some things you can't make up.

2 responses to "Week #33 - Vouvoient "

Erinn the Bold wrote: Saturday, 06 Sep 2008 09:04 That is hilarious and awesome. I'll remember that when I'm taking french this year.

Karen wrote: Monday, 15 Sep 2008 18:39 Another reason why I should learn a language WELL.

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