I’ve been wondering what else might be fun to post from Colonel Edmund Fitzwilliam’s story; as it is both a romance and an adventure story, I thought I would let you see the time that the Colonel and his friend Esparza, from the English intelligence service, met the French spy, l’Etailler. L’Etailler had been following them along the Loire Valley in France, merely because he was the suspicious sort. Esparza decided they needed to keep him under closer watch, so he concocted a history in which the Colonel was to play “the proper John Bull”, an under-educated and over-opinionated Englishman, who came to France to settle a bet; Esparza then enlists the Frenchman's aid in managing this unruly Brit. The following is the beginning of their time together; be assured that the Colonel is nothing like the fool he sounds: he is, in fact, channeling his older brother, who is exactly that sort of fool.



Edmund spoke up: “Dash it, Esparza, what does the man say? Are we on the right road, or not?”

Estéban bowed an apology to the stranger, then turned to Edmund and said, “We are indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam; this good gentleman says we cannot fail to encounter Tours, if we but follow the river.”

“Thank goodness for that. Why these Frenchies cannot manage to put up signposts is beyond me.” At this the stranger’s eyes went flat.

In a terse whisper that easily carried to the stranger, Esparza said to Edmund, “Perhaps, mon Colonel, it would be as well to consider that not every one we might meet is necessarily ignorant of English.”

“What?” demanded Edmund. “What’s that?” Then, looking over at the man, he said, “Oh. Just so; dashed thoughtless of me. Mon … um, mon excuses, Monsignor.” Facing Edmund, Estéban froze for a moment, looking as though he had swallowed something still alive and struggling, as he powerfully resisted the urge to laugh at Edmund’s atrocious perversion of the French language. After a moment he regulated his features and turned back to the other.

“Peut-etre le Monsieur parle un peu de l’Anglais?”

“I do, in fact,” the man replied. “Although it is a long while since that tongue has been heard here. This peace at least offers one the opportunity to keep up on one’s languages.”

“Damme, Esparza, if his English isn’t a match for yours! Hah!” Edmund exclaimed in a hearty, good-humoured voice. There was in his tone that peculiar delight usually reserved for admiring the antics of the trained monkeys at the fair.

Estéban cast his eyes heavenward for the stranger’s benefit, and said, “Forgive my manners, I pray you, Monsieur; I am Estéban de Esparza, at your service.” He bowed and added, “And my companion here is Colonel Edmund Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Andover.”

“I am Maurice l’Etailler,” the man replied and bowed from his saddle to each in turn. He looked on Edmund with interest. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, yours is a noble family, then?’

“Lord, yes,” exclaimed Edmund. “Been in the House of Lords forever. My brother’s quite well-known at Carlton House.” He said this last as though that one fact settled everything that ever need be said on the subject. “As a matter of fact, I came over because I told his Highness that I would wager the Frenchies … that is, erm,” he made a slight bow of apology, “the people of your great nation, are every bit as fed up with this war as we are.”

“You are known to the Prince of Wales?” l’Etailler asked with some surprise.

“Well, not the way my brother is, but we have spoken from time to time.”

To Esparza the man said, “It might not be ill-considered to persuade your friend to keep that knowledge close, Monsieur. This long war has left many grievances against the English, and he an aristo, at that.”

“Very wise, Citoyen,” Estéban agreed. “And I have mentioned to him before now the more enlightened way your nation does things, and how very differently the two countries see things at present. His father is known to mine, you see, and I was pleased to honour that relationship by serving as a sort of guide during this enquiry he pursues. He wished to meet the people of the country, and not just those of influence and position, so we have taken this longer path on the route to Paris.”

“Well, Esparza,” interjected Edmund, “people are people, after all, dash it … hmph: there’s no denying it; and my wager with his Highness was that for every true Frenchman in favour of the war, I could find four against it.”

“Fascinating,” observed l’Etailler coolly. “You came here on a bet?”

“That, I did,” Edmund declared with jovial assurance. “Not much else would entice a man to leave London to come here; hah! The wine’s good, I grant you, but the beer—‘pon my word, I can’t see how a man … well, I hope you’ll forgive me if I say I prefer honest English ale.”

“Remarkable,” said l’Etailler slowly. “Truly remarkable. I shall remark upon our meeting, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I assure you. Betting and beer—what other interests have you?”

“Interests?” asked Edmund, bridling with indignation. “You mean business? I can’t see that my business is any of yours, by gad, Sir!” He cleared his throat explosively and glared at the Frenchman

Estéban held out a placating hand. “No, no, my good Colonel. He meant to enquire into your pastimes, your enjoyments.”

“What? Oh. Oh, you mean besides betting and beer? I see now! Hah, hah, I thought it was a piece of infernal impudence!” He smiled with simple good humour and innocence at l’Etailler. “Well, I never pass up a hunt. In fact,” he added, looking down with a wholly insufficient attempt at modesty, “one has a certain reputation as a rider, don’t you know.”