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Chanteloup tried hard to dodge the old geezer’s spittle, and was frantically looking for a way to excuse herself when she locked eyes with one of her honorees. She was not surprised to see he was the one to arrive at the earliest. And naturally, their eyes had met. A good pretext to dodge the geezer, and the promise of an interesting conversation ahead. All of their previous encounters had been interesting, each in their own way. Visibly reacting to seeing him, she made excuses to the geezer, sidestepped him and essentially beckoned to Favager, who looked like a puppy lost on a bowling track.

« Alaric Jean-Paul Favager d’Astier. Commandant AND soon to be chevalier. And I was already having a hard time choosing how I should call you. Found your way easily, I presume ? Or have you been up all night, camping in front of that door to make sure you wouldn’t be late ? »

“Well no ma’am, I’ve- I wasn’t…” he stumbled over his words and cleared his throat. His hand twitched with a suppressed “salute” instinct. “I walked the route yesterday. I wouldn’t want to get lost on such an important day. I had to give my guests directions, after all.”

His hands fumbled over a warm croissant on the buffet table, his focus remaining on the superior officer many times his magnitude.

Montlaville took a moment to inspect Favager as he babbled in the most charming of ways. It had been like that almost every time now. Beneath the hardened shell, there was a lot going on. Agitated waters, a clearly turbulent soul. Trained as she was to read into the smallest signs of body language, his well-meaning stammering was much like an open book. With very large, colourful illustrations. His garment didn’t surprise her : efficient, no-nonsense, but not without refinement, either. Sober, to the point, without flash or excessive pomp… All much like himself. Those last attributes made him stand out a little from the scandalous crowd that had amassed to see the Majesty’s new chevaliers… But not in a bad way. To her, at least. As he mentioned his guests, she looked besides his shoulders. The man was considerably taller than her, but she made do.

“Ah. So I take it this unruly rabble is somehow connected to you ?” There was a hint of sarcasm to her tone. In Chanteloup language, that equalled to a very obvious, slap-on-the-bum tone.

Favager’s eyes shot open and he crushed the flaky little pastry in his fist, snuffing out the innocent life within. He turned on his heels, checking up on the mob of relations a half-dozen meters away.
He took sober note of the troop of kids clamoring over an intelligence officer in a brilliant blue dress, and the older guests in budget formal wear chattering loudly on mundane subjects.

“I can ask them to keep it down ma’am, if that’s what you would like. They’ve never been to a formal event like this before. I’m sure I could get them to take a walk in the gardens, or look at the fountains-”

Chanteloup cut him off, perhaps a little abruptly. “ You will do no such thing. Let them enjoy it. Your success is theirs too, after a fashion. I’m well aware of your… Social background, Favager. To show merit is to receive appropriate reward…”

“Elévation par la victoire,” he muttered.

“Such is one of our core values. They contributed to your success, they’ve earned some of the spoils. You don’t have to introduce us.” Montlaville added, quickly. She was cautious to reassure the clearly nervous Favager. She’d need him at the top of his social game : part of the reason why he’d been made a chevalier, despite his obvious merit, was to show that even elements from the lower classes of the Gallic society could make it to such positions as the one he was holding. A commandant AND a chevalier from a family of miners was, to her knowledge, a rarity. So rewarding merit, then ; but politics, as well. There was never a break from those. That didn’t mean she’d have to contend with an army of blabbering, invasive children. She had none of her own and was notoriously ill-at-ease with them, owing to her lack of experience. Or so she told herself.

As the thoughts unraveled in her mind, she realised she’d trailed off after cutting off Favager, who was now clearly distressed, observing her, mouth agape. “Oh, go ahead, then, let’s get this over with.”

“Oh, really, Amiral, you don’t have to take the time to meet all of them. There are so many nobles and officers here…” he stretched out his arm and waved across the hall. “I’m surprised you even have a minute for me, quite honestly. I can’t imagine how much of a chore today is for you.”

“About as much as I suspect it is for you. You’re getting a title, but that means something to me as well. The pain is shared but the honour is as well. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will see personally that you’re dropped into Fleury-Mérogis’ deepest hole and never see any light again.” She checked her watch, something she hadn’t done ever since the conversation started. This time, entire minutes had passed, and still no sign of the pompous fools. They’d better not fail me or there’ll be hell to pay, she thought. “Your colleagues are only on their way, and I have no obligations to the rest of this... honorable assembly. I am the chief of staff of our Marine, which apparently comes with the nice perk of choosing how I get to spend my time.”

Favager was a bit more at ease now, almost chuckling at the concept of his comrades from Magellan missing their appointed time. “I had better hope Contre-Amiral Thouars shows up soon. I can’t get enough of that man!”

“Oh, he’ll be there… He’d sooner die than miss this.”

“He picked an amazing superlative for his knighthood, but I’m not allowed to say.”

Montlaville winced. “I imagine he did. I expected nothing less, and I’m not sure I like that thought. I suppose we’ll all find out soon enough... “ She checked her watch again.

He wrapped up his pulverized croissant in a napkin, without ever having taken a bite. He took a deep breath, straitening a highly unfamiliar bowtie.

“It would be my honor to introduce you to my family, Amiral. I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“Then we may as well get it over with now, before things start picking up speed. We may not have that possibility once the ceremony starts in earnest. You’ll be under intense scrutinity the whole time. And I don’t plan to stick around once the day is over.”

As she spoke, she noticed the traditionally reserved Jean-Yves Patrice de Justéton sneak into the main hall. He was wearing his usual ceremonial façade, a contrived, pleasant air of someone who’d much rather be just about anywhere else but had to put on a good show. He was good at that, too : surely the man had experience. He’d fool most of the dignitaries who had shown up… But not her. Not that she’d expected him to suddenly show such a foreign concept to him as joy : it’d take more than a knighthood for that. Precisely what, she wasn’t sure. He turned and finally saw her. Keeping a polite distance, he greeted her about as formally as formal can get, with the merest hint of warmth. She replied in kind with a nod and a half-smile, before returning her attention to Favager. Seconds had passed.

Soon-to-be Chevalier Favager was already waving over his veritable platoon of guests. The vast majority of distinguished attendees paid no heed to the high count of seats allotted per person. Alaric was one of the few to ever worry that such a number might be insufficient.

“Mère, père, this is Amiral Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup, Chief of Staff of the Marine Royale Gauloise. Amiral, these are my parents, Alice and Baptiste.”

He quickly shooed away the half-pint swarm gathering around his legs. “Come on, back up, you’ll get your turn. Leon, let go of your sister…”

“Amiral, it is our highest and most gracious pleasure,” Baptiste Favager intoned reverently, bowing curtly at the waist. Alice followed his lead and bowed in the same fashion.

Montlaville acknowledged their greeting with a brief nod, then shook their hands warmly, in quick succession. Her handshake was firm and snappy, a surprise for one so frail in appearance.

“Bonjour, monsieur, madame. Your son gave me one hell of a headache a few years ago. He probably never explained you why.” She chuckled to herself, another rarity. Turns out this ceremony was an occasion to slip out of character, somehow. She added quickly :
“You’ve done well by supporting him up to his joining the Marine. It can’t have been easy for you, but you’ve done it. He’s a good officer, your son. He always means well and he’s been a reliable asset to us ever since he joined my unit. For that, I’m grateful, and pleased to meet those primarily responsible of his existence”. She realised too late how awkward she might have sounded. Social gatherings had never been her forte, and she suspected the presence of so many younglings impeded her judgement.

Alice and Baptiste either brushed it off or didn’t notice.
“We’re so glad to hear that, Amiral de Chanteloup. My husband and I have supported the Marine our whole lives and nothing makes me happier than to know… to know mon petit ours is doing so well…” Alice trailed off, flapping her hands to fight back the tears.

“Merci, Amiral,” Baptiste grovelled, pulling his wife aside so as to help get her together.

Next up were the aunts and uncles, until a familiar source of mischief pressed out from their legs and ran straight up to Chanteloup. Little Chloe stared up in wonder, and words tumbled out of her silly little mouth just a hair faster than Alaric could step over and cover it.

“Armory Canteloupe, are you the queeen?”

Alaric knelt down, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “No, petite, Amiral Chanteloup is not the queen,” he began sweetly,” but I’m sure she can give me the guillotine all the same if you ask any more silly questions!” His desperate whisper was just barely audible over the din of the room.

Several complicated things occured within Montlaville. Or rather, one very simple, elementary thing occured. She was touched. She was not prepared for any of it. The simple display of Favager’s humble and so visibly proud parents hit her in unforeseen ways. Their authenticity and so evidently gentle nature a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the hall, all in glittering appearances, elaborate pleasantries and drilled curtsies. She was not done processing this as they excused themselves and the rest of the Favagers filed in. As she cautiously returned herself to the usual stillness, she was assaulted by one of the little ones. And what the little one told her triggered another unexpected and unusual reaction.

Montlaville laughed, loud. It was a barked laugh, sonorous, throaty, the absolutely genuine and unprepared kind that is not so easily controlled. Almost a muscular reaction, that she deduced must have owed to the contrast between the parents and what she assumed to be the little sister. All so very authentic and without filter, raw, untamed emotion projected straight at her. She, who was intensively trained to extract as much information as possible from the smallest hints in someone’s body language. This was like biting into a hot pepper with a mouth trained to recognise the merest details in the most subtle of red wines.

The laughing stopped. Montlaville regained her composure as well she could, but could not suppress a smile. “I am not the queen, little one. But your interpretation is flattering, and your… Raw courage… Is certainly commendable. Favager, I expect you will teach this one what you’ve learned during your service in the Marine. She’ll make an excellent recruit !” She tried to impart humor to those last sentences, and hoped it would come across.

Favager could not help but laugh, restrained as it was. He was still recovering from the utter shock of the recent situation not ending in his own personal armageddon.

“Aye aye, ma’am. But maybe not everything I’ve had to learn,” he took a far less nervous bite from his pulverized croissant. “She has a better head on her shoulders than me.”

Then, as the rest of the family had gathered around, Alaric scanned for any more mischief at roughly knee-height, only to find that all five of his little nieces and nephews had absconded off somewhere. His eyes darted around in a brief panic, until he caught sight of five rental dresses and tuxedoes lined up at the buffet. Leading them was a familiar savior in a blue dress. Yvette had put some mystical spell on the ruffians again.

“By the Roi’s grace…” he sighed. He choked down the last of his croissant. Alaric looked back over at the chief of staff, cursing himself for daring to take his attention away for even a second.

“I do wonder how you can keep track of all of those at once. No wonder you’re… Adequate in regards to leadership.” She realised her tone was softer than usual, and had been so for the past three minutes and seventeen seconds.

“Perhaps taking away their tarte Tatin priveleges isn’t too far from cutting a sailor’s pay.”

Montlaville chuckled at that, and even felt a ping of compassion for the little ones... She was done counting today’s oddities, but she’d need to put a limit to those at some point. She checked her watch… And the worries returned, shooing away the irregular light-heartedness of the moment.
“The rest of your colleagues are still at large, and time’s passing, fast. I’ll see if I can raise them in any way… Go, Favager. Mingle. You’re here for a myriad reasons, and one of those is to get yourself known to those people. So go do that, while I make sure this ceremony won’t be a complete disaster.”

“Aye ma’am,” he rocked to attention, throwing up a sharp salute, which he cut the moment he realized what he had just done out of uniform. “Excuse me.”

Montlaville wasted no time and moved away from the buffet and into the gardens, all thoughts of enjoying a least one bite of a croissant utterly vanished from her mind. That was too busy calculating every possible outcome of the next half-hour, as her watch ticked dangerously to nine o’clock. And what if they didn’t get the letter ? Had they even RSVP’d ? Were they held back by something ? Terrorists ? A surprise attack somewhere ? Were they still alive ?! Had they even existed at some point ?!!

Realising she had taken things past eleven there, she suddendly remembered the lessons of that one yoga lesson she’d attended under the pressure of a friend of hers, centuries ago. She never went back, and the mere thought of those people stretching in ridiculous ways, wearing such silly clothes while being told by a very serious voice that they were plants… That was usually enough to calm her nerves or bring up the more cruel side of her humour. But this time called for more, and she drew on the actual teachings that she could remember. Breathe. Think happy thoughts. And… Something about letting go. Merde, ça ne fonctionne pas.

Eschewing foreign and unproven practices, she darted back inside, towards the buffet, and took entire minutes to savour a croissant. The crisp, warm, buttery artistry of it all. A millenia of tradition and savoir-faire that had conspired to create something so simple, so fundamentally perfect… The completeness of the taste, the satisfying texture, the smell of it all. What more could anyone need ? She’d heard that the Libertonians had the habit of eating croissants filled with that gooey puffy white cream that seemed so unpleansantly omnipresent in what passed for their gastronomical culture. The idea of it revolted her every time. Bringing an unneeded, tasteless and primitive layer of almost pure fat to baked perfection sounded like an analogy of everything Liberty stood for. More than enough to march against them, to be sure.

Her chakras still utterly misaligned, this fresh outburst of purposefulness mixed with the profound satisfaction extracted from the croissant had done wonders to soothe her mind. She was now in the best dispositions to pass a few of her notorious furious phone-calls, which were as brief and violent as a thunderstorm and generally left those on the receiving end feeling like the trenches of the Somme circa 1918.

It turned out both fools had indeed RSVP’d and had the presence of mind to document their departures – or, more likely, someone under their command took that upon themselves. They were somewhere, coming. It was ten to nine.

And then.

All at once, her watch burst to life, the time display fading to reveal the red list. The dreaded, crucial list. The « URGENCES » list. A long list of notifications appeared, and kept coming. Two Valor-class ships had just barreled through to Néo-Paris, with critical effects on today’s trafic conditions. Security warnings. Breached perimeters. Panicked radio officers.
She thought the Conseillards had finally done it and had hijacked two Valors to sneak into Ile de France and wreck the whole place, revealing themselves at the last minute. She then remembered who she was dealing with, as she read that one of the Valors had stopped just short of breaching the atmosphere and had deployed a freighter. That was the Algérie. Good, she thought. Timely and pomp to the extreme, but he had probably planned it all from the beginning to how the cargo ramp would hit the pavement. Fontaine was such a one. She could already imagine him, posing in the frame of the freighter’s cargo hatch, before making an imperial descent with as smug a face as smug could be. The Aurochs finally arrived and touched down softly in a designated landing zone, a minute or two away from the hall entrance. Then the cargo door opened… And all proceeded exactly as she’d anticipated. And certainly how Everett Fontaine had planned. She followed his slowly approaching silhouette, his step as prompt as he could manage without breaking into an undignified trotting.

But then, more red lights. The second Valor had breached the atmosphere and was somehow tumbling down above her. She took her eyes away from a surprised Fontaine and looked up. And sure enough, a Valor was there... Probably defying a few laws of physics in the process, but she had long ago decided that Gallic engineering was clearly above such petty constraints. She might have been silenced by such a display in another context. As things were, her fury was mounting at roughly the same pace as the Valor was descending. If it came down and crashed, the explosion of her massive amounts of pure ***** wrath would make short work of any survivors.

It didn’t crash. And there it hovered above ground, emitting intolerable vibrations that could be felt deeply. Montlaville, amidst her rage, found herself amazed at all the hall’s windows enduring so much punishment without flinching. And then, the ship finally delivered its cargo. And what cargo it was ! The plump Thouars sauntered off and headed seemingly right for her. His outfit was layers upon layers of colours, shapes, textures with little apparent care for cohesion and matching. Months of bitter warfare did nothing to change Thouars’ inner being : he was who he’d always been, and she could hardly see what might change that.

He made his excuses to her livid face, utterly oblivious of the massive amounts of chaos his arrival had unleashed. To a man like Thouars, this was only wednesday, which only served to infuriate her further. She usually prepared and planned her thoughts in advance before giving a public dressing-down to a subordinate who’d failed her. This time however, it was too much for her to bear, and she decided to improvise. She’d rely on instinct.

She inhaled, started to yell « THOUAAAAAAAAAAAARS »… Right as the massive wooden doors of the hall closed down right behind an unfazed Fontaine, who flicked a single particle of dust off his shoulder. Naturally, the deafening CRACK of the closing doors had rendered her cry inaudible, perhaps even to Thouars himself. She had no time to recover, as the master of ceremonies bellowed commandingly at the guests.

« Monsieur Henri Barnabé Jussieu de Saint Antoine, Comte du Larzac, librarian of his Majesty ! »

9h02. The welcoming speech. Time to line up. What’s a Valor breaching the capital’s atmosphere to a knighthood ceremony ?

The doors slammed shut just as Fontaine and Justéton locked eyes and right before the master of ceremonies boomed at the entire hall. There was no time left. Chanteloup grumbled and fell in with the rest of the audience, knowing that the ceremony proper was now on the rails and there wouldn't be much she could do anymore to escape it. Two battleships breaching New Paris' security perimeter hadn't been enough to cancel the proceedings, and she didn't happen to have a third one in her pocket, so so much for that. As she moved with the crowd towards a small stage set up for the occasion, she made zero effort to try and conceal her displeasure at being here... And then, once more, remembered why she was. The men. Her scowl turned to a frown, which turned to a somewhat pissed-off air, to a faint grin. That would have to do.

The audience had finally assembled, and the whispers had died down to a few stern remarks by the master of ceremony. The librarian appeared and slowly made his way to the stage and up to a pulpit. He was a frail old man, walking with difficulty with the help of a cane... Chanteloup wasn't sure he'd make it to the stage's pulpit, but there he went, a radiant smile on his wrinkled face and sweet joy in his eyes. The librarian wasn't the impenetrable wall of scorn she'd imagined. The man was clearly, merely happy to be around. A rare development in such mundanities.

He cleared his throat and greeted the audience with a microphone-amplified voice. A soft voice, rather evocative of his appearance. He was soft-spoken and sweet... And sleep-inducing, it turned out. Or maybe it was all the anxiety leaving Chanteloup's body... Either way, she could make out that the good librarian was speaking of the great responsibilities of nobility, primarily. Probably a warning to the honorees that, although their many glories had been acknowledged, they now had a great responsibility to Gallia's people and her values. They would be charged with upholding those values in any time, any place. En tout temps, en tous lieux. She felt it was a bit of a reminder for some of the more grossly decadent nobles who had gathered around today and whose service to the Crown had probably never extended beyond a good birth, breeding and paying taxes. Such absence of merit. The mere thought woke her up and brought some anger back, which she dispelled quickly.



The kindly old man seemed to build up to the conclusion of his speech by mentioning the many virtues of sacrifice, of looking out for those below your station, of achieving not for your sake, but for others'. A telling angle in these times of bitter war, but a valuable thought all the same. It was important for the cream of the Kingdom to feel superior, yes, but not out of reality either. That was the opposite of the point... And a frequent occurance. Unregulated amounts of pomp and promises of untold riches often made short work of stern discipline and austerity, no matter how hard military training could get. Eventually, he bowed, and scuttled away humbly, most likely to his precious library, under sober applause.

"HONOREES ! ON STAGE !" bellowed the master of ceremony while everyone was either dosing off or still absorbing the sobering speech. Most of the audience jumped, and the four honorees made their way to the stage and faced the audience as ordered by the master through curt gesturing. Fontaine was, naturally, stoic and utterly commanding, a quiet storm in his eyes and the merest hint of a smile. Thouars was completely in his element, trying (and succeeding) to look as pompous and exuberant as possible. Chanteloup seemed to notice he was going through several facial expressions with utmost subtlety, looking for the one that'd best suit the occasion... But it might have been her imagination. Then came the towering Favager, who looked equal parts terrified and overflowing with the raw, untamed pride of modest folk. He had the air of a gentle giant in a porcelain shop, very happy to be here but fearful that even batting an eyelid would wreck the whole place. And finally, de Justéton. Or a statue of de Justéton : as far as Chanteloup could tell, the difference was a subtle one. He was standing perfectly upright, all military discipline and cold blood, with his usual mask on. He can't wait for this to be over.

The master bellowed their names and titles, one after the other, which took an unreasonable amount of time. Fontaine's grin turned into a particularly smug smile at the mention of his growing list of titles. Thouars practically squealed with content during the prolonged narration of his own pedigree. Favager went from gentle giant to perfect military uprightness in a blur when his turn came. De Justéton stood, nonplussed, with practiced polite aloofness. A round of applause greeted the honorees, who were invited to leave the stage. The audience was then shepherded to the main dining hall, which took a considerable amount of time. The crowd wasn't that big... But dressed in such a way that made quick movement unthinkable. The procession trudged along and found their place around the ridiculously fastuous table according to their attributed seats.

As they sat, dame Michelle Leclerc-D'Estiennes d'Orves and her orchestra went about their art.