The Camembert Conundrum
or, How to Woo a Lover & Fascinate a Woman.
You may fascinate a woman by giving her a piece of cheese.
Arno de Vénissieux could not remember where he had first heard this insightful piece of wisdom, but, considering he just spent the last of his wages on a veritable horde of fine cheeses, he hoped to God it was true, as the object of his amorous intentions was the ravishing Lady Rosaline.
A favourite of Queen Anne, Rosaline was known as a great beauty throughout the city of Paris, and men habitually made fools of themselves vying for her attention. Arno, for his part, had become acquainted (and subsequently besotted) with Rosaline after repeated encounters at the palace.
There were two main obstacles standing in the way of Arno successfully wooing Lady Rosaline; the first being that he was utterly incompetent when it came to the fairer sex. Arno was a skilled swordsman and brave soldier, but the idea of frolicking with the divine creatures of womanhood filled him with dread such as he never knew when charging into musket fire, or standing opposite the razor sharp blade of a skilled opponent. The second, more insurmountable obstacle was that Lady Rosaline was married.
Her husband was the indolent count of an unimpressive backwater in the French countryside, and Arno was resolute that the empyrean Rosaline deserved much better. The good count was inexplicably neglectful of his charming wife, spending inordinate periods of time away from her. Regardless of Arno’s thoughts on the pedigree of her consort, it would nonetheless be something of a scandal for a noble lady such as her to have an affair with a lowly Musketeer such as himself.
Arno had struggled for weeks on end to suppress his tempestuous yearnings for a dalliance with Rosaline, until just last week when they had a chance encounter in the palace gardens, whereupon she spent several minutes beguiling him with delightful conversation. After that, Arno was adamant to romance her once and for all, scandal be damned.
And that was how he ended up at the same bench where they’d had their momentous exchange the week before, with a basket of the finest cheeses one could afford at the Parisian markets on a Musketeer’s salary. Arno had secreted a letter into Rosaline’s apartments, confessing his undying love, and asking her to meet him in the gardens. He was still pondering the origin of the mercurial adage about cheese and women when he heard strident footsteps crunching down the gravel path towards where he waited. Arno anxiously leapt to his feet, straightening his doublet and cape as he grappled with control of his nerves. He nearly fell over in shock and humiliation when Rosaline’s husband traipsed into view.
“You duplicitous cur!” the count snarled at the Musketeer, gesticulating wildly as he waved Arno’s damning letter through the air. “I come to Paris to rejoin with my preoccupied wife, and instead I find this…this…mawkish twaddle!”
“M-my l-lord,” Arno began to stammer timidly, but the nobleman held up a hand in a gesture of foppish disdain to cut him off.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You have inflicted a grievous insult upon my honor in your attempt to stain the already tenuous virtue of my wife.” The count drew his sword, an ornate rapier which Arno surmised was mainly for show. “Well, you aren’t the first bastard to try and turn me in to a cuckold, but you will damn sure be the last! I shall deal with that devious wench just as soon as I’ve dispatched you. En garde!”
Before Arno could protest about the legality and wisdom of a nobleman engaging in a duel with a common soldier, he was set upon viciously by the enraged husband. The count was not much of a swordsman, and the Musketeer tried to put an end to the contest by inflicting minor cuts on his opponent’s arms and legs. However, the man only became more and more incensed with each new wound to his extremities.
The count grasped his sword in both hands and, with a savage and frustrated cry, threw himself upon the point of Arno’s rapier. The Musketeer was too preoccupied at the nobleman’s self-inflicted impalement to pay attention to the blade sweeping down from overhead. With the last of his strength behind the fatal blow, the count’s sword cut deep into Arno’s neck.
After waiting for several moments to be sure that both men had expired, Lady Rosaline stepped out from behind the hedgerow. She knelt over the Musketeer’s inert body, careful to avoid the blood pooling around him from the grievous wound that had ended his life.
“Oh, Arno,” she said with soft, mock regret. “You might have been a romantic imbecile, but you did give me a way out with that foolhardy letter of yours. I was so certain you would emerge victorious, and I would certainly have rewarded you…”
Rosaline’s words trailed off as she stood and gazed upon the corpse of her reviled husband. “And you, you bastard: good riddance!”
Her eyes fell upon the basket on the bench, positively brimming with a vast assortment of cheeses, and elation lit up her alluring face. Rosaline eagerly began to rifle through the vessel, but she soon threw her hands up in disappointment.
“Oh, bother,” she grumbled. “There’s no Reblochon!”
Author’s Note: This story, though in no way indicative of our own divine romance, is dedicated to Mrs. Has Thoughts (
), whom I love most ardently, and who allows me to fascinate her with cheese on a daily basis.If you enjoyed reading my Thoughts, consider showing your appreciation by helping to make my dream of quitting my day job a reality.
I vote we bring 'mawkish twaddle' in common jargon. Great dialogue/insults in this piece.
The cheese thing is so true. My wedding cake was a stack of cheese wheels. That's love.
The ending made me laugh. Great job.