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The Triumvirate of France is peacefully seated at their usual table enjoying their wine and reveling in tales of their glorious battles of the past. For GdD Knox, the year is perpetually 1809 and the great disasters which his beloved Empire will undergo lie far beyond the boundary of his prodigious imagination. The industrious Marechal Corbin is constantly at work, his many staff duties perpetually pressing his limited time, although he attentively listens to the tales of the Old Grognards, inserting a witty comment or important detail as the opportunity arises. Marechal Bardon regales his comrades with the list of Prussian officers, one particular Hanoverian, and a Dutch-Belgian Generaal against which he is currently engaged, swearing on his Emperor’s crown that he will simultaneously defeat the whole, motley lot of them. It is a pleasant enough conversation among long standing comrades in arms who have grown quite close under the duress and horrors of Napoleonic combat.
Despite the nearby conversation taking place at their expense, the Coalition officers seem to be in a very jovial mood as well. Good hearted laughter is heard from many of the tables where the senior Coalition commanders are seated. Many of the Coalition officers nod and gesture toward the table of the French Triumvirate, smiling and laughing as if the stories the Frenchmen are telling of their great victories are amusing, even to their vanquished foes.
Two Russian officers enter the tavern together, each bearing a wide grin which breaks into quickly stifled laughter as they spy the three, senior French officers comfortably seated at their usual table. Barely containing their mirth, they hasten to a nearby table occupied by two Austrian officers. Receiving their drinks from the lovely barmaid, Helga, they continue to cast glances at the table of senior French officers, occasionally laughing uncontrollably and spewing vodka on their hapless comrades who join in their laughter, oblivious to the soiling of their smartly pressed coats.
Now it is well known in all of the armies that the French Guardsmen are universally arrogant, but none of their Coalition counterparts are so foolish as to assume that they are stupid. The French Guard has a fine reputation for valor and victory whenever they take the field. For some time, GdD Knox allows the inflated ego inherent in his rank and station to deceive him into believing that the Coalition officers are acknowledging the stark truth of the Frenchmen’s tales. As more and more Coalition officers seem to readily join in the mirth, it slowly begins to dawn on him that something may be amiss. Whereas one, two, or even a few of the Coalition officers might actually have the intelligence to finally realize that the Emperor’s destiny as the ruler of all nations is inevitable, the odds of all of the Coalition officers simultaneously coming to this conclusion, and being happy about it, are infinitesimal. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. Yes, something is definitely amiss.
The French General of Chassuers sets down his wine glass and transfixes Marechal Bardon with an intense gaze. No words need be exchanged between such veteran officers. Marechal Bardon realizes his General’s intent. Marechal Corbin glances up from his writing at the momentary interruption of Marechal Bardon’s tale and immediately grasps the thoughts of his fellow comrades in arms.
Suddenly, the door to the tavern flies open, slamming hard against the adjacent wall with a loud bang. A French Captain of Hussars rushes into the room, his face white as a sheet and his eyes dilated in astonished terror. “Mon Dieu” he cries, addressing the French General of Chassuers, “your horse!”
With blinding speed, the French General of Chassuers leaps from his chair and rushes to the open doorway, reflexively drawing his sword as he runs. The two French Marechals are right on his heels, weapons drawn as well, as they cross the threshold of the tavern entrance together. As suddenly as they started, all three French officers draw abruptly to a complete stop. Their sword tips dip toward the ground as they nearly lose their grips on their well used weapons. All three stare slack jawed at the sight that meets their eyes. Their horses stand before them, patiently tethered to the hitching post, although their appearance has radically changed since their recent arrival at the Tavern this evening. Marechal Bardon’s fine steed has been adorned with a crown of feathers, blue and gold leggings and an ornate chest plate depicting the feathered wings of a bird. Marechal Corbin’s stallion sports a mosaic tile pattern on the circumference of his barrel, blue and gold mosaic leggings and a blue and red mosaic halter. General Knox’s pampered companion bears a shiny, brick red coat with flames sprouting from his fetlocks, mane and tail.
The stunned Triumvirate stands stock still as the laughter of the Coalition officers inside the tavern reaches a crescendo. As they recover their composure, they turn as one and cast a baleful glare at a Hanoverian Lieutenant Colonel seated near the far wall with his feet propped upon his table. Seemingly oblivious to the turmoil around him, but sensing the malevolent stare of the three French officers, the Hanoverian looks up from the army correspondence he is reading and, with a look of questioning innocence calmly meets the gaze of the three perturbed French officers and asks, “What?”
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