Pierrefonds, Picardy, France, Summer, 1645
Atop a high hill stood the stately Château de Pierrefonds, a once-proud castle built centuries before but now fallen into ruin. The valley below it was rich, verdant, and fruitful -- not, perhaps, as famous for its produce as Burgundy or Camembert, but it still produced wines and cheeses and meats and herbs of the highest quality. It was also, at this time in history, little-noticed and tucked out of the way of any of the goings-on in Paris.
In short, if you were a French chef with access to any time and place you wished to go to purchase supplies, but you wanted to keep your strangely dinnerware-shaped physique away from too many prying eyes, this was a relatively good place to pick.
Unless something happened to cause someone to notice -- such as the lord of the valley throwing a party for himself only to find his vintner out of wine.
"DEMONS?!?!" Monsieur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds roared after hearing the vintner's story. His hulking frame filled the front room of the modest winery, and that plus his puzzled expression made him seem almost a demon himself.
"Demons," the vintner confirmed. "Large and round, with skin as hard and cold as marble. They were surely not of this earth!"
"Demons!??!!" squeaked the lord's corpulent valet, recoiling in horror.
"Actors," corrected the vintner's wife from the kitchen door. "Didn't you listen? They said they were a travelling theater troupe, and hadn't had time to change out of their costumes. And they offered good money." She stirred the sauteing vegetables in her badly dented frying pan, shrugged, and headed back into the kitchen to return the pan to the stove.
"They were demons," her husband insisted. "And they offered me five times what the wine was worth, but I said to them no, these hogsheads are for my lord de Pierrefonds, for whose goodness and grace I am forever thankful. He is expecting them, I said to the demons, and I will honor that regardless of the amount of coin you offer!"
"And they said...? Bah, what could they respond, in the face of such immaculate logic?! I commend you, Friend, and will ever remember your service!" M. du Vallon bowed graciously to his loyal subject.
The vintner colored, honored by his lordships condescension. "Alas, no," he stammered. "They said nothing -- instead, they used their magic to put me to sleep. When I awoke, the wine was gone, and the back of my head ached fiercely!"
"Are you sure that was magic?" M. du Vallon asked, putting a friendly arm across the man's shoulders. "It sounds like they just hit you with a cosh!"
"That would still be magic, then, to hit me from behind whilst they stood in front of me!" The vintner was undeterred. "If they were common robbers, why would they take nothing but the wine? No, they were demons, with some nefarious purpose for it -- perhaps a black Mass, or a drunken orgy!"
M. du Vallon patted his subject's shoulder. "I swear to you here and now," he thundered, right into the poor man's ear, "that I will find those demons, and I will demand they return your wine, and if they do not, they shall taste my steel!"
"We wouldn't want to put you to all that trouble," the vintner's wife insisted hurriedly, once again standing in the kitchen door and stirring the vegetables in her dented pan. "You've done so much for us, my lord. All we ask is that you forgive us for having no wine ready right now."
Porthos looked into her eyes, trying to understand her reluctance. His gaze slid down to the dent in the pan in her hand, which seemed to match the goose egg blossoming on her husband's skull... And then behind her, to the bag on the kitchen counter that looked suspiciously full of coin. He began laughing heartily, and clapping the poor vintner on the shoulder so hard that the smaller man winced with every blow. "My friend, I envy you your wife! Keep her close, and next time listen to her counsel! You are lucky I am not a younger man!"
The vintner looked at his lord with confusion, and so too did the valet. "Monsieur, I do not understand..."
Porthos walked over to his friend, and now it was his turn to be clasped heartily on the shoulder. "Come, Mouston!" Porthos announced cheerfully. "There is a travelling theater troupe nearby, and I would have them play for us!" He turned and bowed graciously to the lady of the house. "Madame, whither went they, when you saw them last?"
[NFI, NFB]