A Needed Reunion

It had been three weeks since I had last been with the Compte de Rienville, with only two short phone calls received. Not satisfactory at all. The last call, however, lifted my spirits. The message was terse: "In Marseilles. The Radisson Blu. Come."

Well, I thought, if the mountain wouldn't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must come to the mountain. Of course these days Mohammed wouldn't go near the mountain, but would send any number of jihadists, bombs in tow, and blow the thing to smithereens. What a sad fate for a religion that gave us our alphabet, and stressed science, art, mathematics and medicine, to say nothing of giving their women far more rights than those offered by the 'Christian' regimes of the day. Alas, over time, all too many Imams and Mullahs fell into the power trap, thereby debasing all and relying upon the hate for others rather than tolerance for all. T'was ever thus with crazed lunatics -- [enough digression. Ed.]

So it was off to Marseilles, and the excellent Radisson Blu. The Compte was never one to pinch pennies, and upon my arrival found that he had booked a lovely suite in my name. All fine and dandy, but where was he?

Having had a good sleep courtesy Air France, and not being one to sit around and mope, I had a quick shower, changed into a black woolen sheath my son Sebastian had designed for me, and sauntered forth to see if this shining hour could be improved.

I went to the bar, where I was the only patron, and was soon enjoying a grey goose on the rocks. The bartender was a retired lawyer from Paris, and admitted that he enjoyed his present job at the bar far more than practicing at the bar. We became deeply engaged in discussing some legal niceties regarding the Dreyfus Case when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was the Compte. On crutches.

"What on earth happened to you?" I asked, after a prolonged and much needed kiss.

"A bad sprain," he replied. "I must also admit to an error. I forgot the truth of the saying, 'There are old agents, and there are bold agents. But there are no old, bold agents.'"

"Actually, I think that first applied to RAF fighter pilots, but I quibble. You going to tell me what really happened?"

"No, but I can tell you that a goodly number of jihadists are now with their beloved 72 virgins."

"Yes, and after the first four or five," I remarked, "they'll be screaming for a pro. But enough. Upstairs beckons."

I paid for my drink, along with a hefty tip -- the conversation with the lawyer/bartender had been enjoyable. As we approached the elevator, I said, "Good of you to admit the error. Admission is always a Good Thing."

The Compte replied, "Well, one must always keep the Duc De La Rochefoucauld in mind."

"And what did the good Duc have to say?"

"Only this: 'That if your prepared to admit it, it's not the worst thing you ever did.'"

Now THAT I must think about.