#I think he might be a cabinet minister

[waugh-bao]

#holy fuck #I think that’s John Major #that may be the strangest Stones crossover I’ve ever seen #the guy all the way on the right looks so familiar as well #I think he might be a cabinet minister #but Keith just casually hanging out shirtless with the Prime Minister… #the rolling stones #keith richards #old married band #ronnie wood #john major

[roselightfairy]

I know it’s been a million and a half years since there was any modverse collab content, but in honor of the WIP prompt reminding me that this existed - and our own sweet friends at home - have some modverse kitty content from me and @deheerkonijn to you!

(elf cats live a long time shhh)

...

The furniture in the parlor was . . . stiff.

Not hard, exactly – the sofa where Gimli sat was cushioned enough that no one could have complained, and even if that had been the problem, there were enough throw pillows (lying scattered across the floor where Legolas had tossed them) to remedy them. It was just that it was almost . . . a little too upright to be quite comfortable, as though made for someone with better posture than he had – even if Legolas, lounging horizontally with his legs across Gimli’s lap, seemed to belie that thought. It was like everything in this manor so far: ornately-carved taps and deep-basined sinks; vast archways and tall, narrow windows with fastenings too high to comfortably open. Beautiful architecture: a building made to be looked at, not lived in.

And yet live in it they did – Legolas, who had navigated this place as easily as he did his apartment at home, knowing exactly which staircase to tug Gimli up to dump their luggage unceremoniously on the bed, rummaging unself-consciously through a tall liquor cabinet to help himself (and Gimli, too) to wine that would have come with an absolutely forbidding price tag in Minas Tirith. Thranduil, who had walked in on Legolas doing this in the kitchen and made no comment but a droll, “More excited to see the wine than your own father, then?”

He sat perfectly upright across the room in his own armchair now, nodding along as Legolas spun an epic narrative of their train journey here. Gimli sat quietly and watched him – watched them, father and son, the ways they took up space in this sitting room. Thranduil’s posture made the space into a council table, the armchair into its head; he sat as though holding court – but Legolas was the one who ran it, whose conversation held the room in rapture, both of them rotating into the captivating orbit of his presence. Gimli wasn’t sure how he felt yet about the Prime Minister of Eryn Lasgalen, but this at least he could admire – that he had made this place, stiff and upright as it was, a home for Legolas.

“– and then he was like, ‘Who do you think you’re visiting, the PM?’ and Gimli just said, ‘Yes,’” Legolas was giggling now, nudging Gimli’s thigh with a heel. “Completely straight-faced! I couldn’t stop laughing. Tell him the rest, meleth.”

Gimli laughed, despite himself – and was this a skill that Legolas had inherited from his father, then? He could feel the effort to put him at ease, to spread Legolas’s own comfort into Gimli – and it was working, softening the room around him like the furniture at his back.

He closed a hand fondly around Legolas’s ankle, trying not to track Thranduil’s eyes tracking the motion. “There’s not much more to say,” he said. “Or, at least, he didn’t seem to think so. Shut up for the rest of the train ride. Not a peep.”

“It was great,” Legolas interjected. “You would have loved it, Dad.”

“I’m sure I would.” Was that smile indulgent or tolerant? Either one was more than Gimli had dared to expect. “Well, I am glad you made it here, at any rate.”

“Me too.” Legolas twisted to aim his most endearing hopeful smile right into Gimli’s face. “I’m glad to show Gimli this place finally.”

“I had hoped you would manage it before your wedding,” said Thranduil. “Some other fathers might have hard words to say about that.” This with an arched eyebrow to match the wryness of his voice. “But, ah well, at least you came eventually. Oh – hello, Smudge.”

Gimli blinked, the non sequitur soaring directly over his head. Had he missed something? – but then, even as he opened his mouth to speak, a patter-clacking interjected in the silence and he turned towards the sound to see a slender tortoiseshell cat slinking its way through the gap in the half-ajar door. It moved very slowly, one dainty paw in front of the other, pale eyes narrowed as it took them all in.

“Smudge?” Gimli said.

“Smudge!” Legolas exclaimed with delight at the same time. “My best friend! Oh, Gimli, she’s been around forever. How is she doing, Dad?”

“See for yourself.” The cat – Smudge – made her way slowly across the room, pausing in front of the couch where they sat even as Legolas dropped a hand to the floor. She sniffed delicately at his fingers, nosing up and down his hand before stretching her head forward until his fingers parted around her ears – but just as his hand contracted to scratch her head, she turned deliberately away, letting his fingers drag along the full length of her body before leaving him to hop up onto the arm of Thranduil’s chair.

“Oh,” Legolas laughed. “Is someone mad at me for being away?” His voice turned into a croon at those last words, the tone he used when mock-scolding Athelas and Simbelmyne. “Were you so, so lonely without me?”

“You might have come back to visit earlier for her sake, if not for your father’s.” Thranduil’s long-suffering tone was spoiled by the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips – and, to Gimli’s amazement, by the way the cat shoved her head into his hand, his fingers curling around the top of her head to scratch vigorously behind her ears. It might have looked regal, a monarch with his cat, except for the loud purring of the cat and the speed of his scratching fingers – not halfhearted at all, whatever he might claim.

“How are the kittens?” Legolas said. “I haven’t seen a picture in weeks – they must be so big!”

“Big enough to cause trouble.” Thranduil waved his unoccupied hand dismissively. “They’re around somewhere – they always turn up just when you don’t want them. Just like her.”

Did his voice – was that a shade of Legolas’s own croon in his voice?

“Smudge,” Gimli repeated, looking at the cat with a new respect. His first day in the home of Lasgalen’s Prime Minister and he had somehow already seen him soften!

“Smudge,” said Legolas, so fondly Gimli could practically see the hearts in his eyes. “She’s been around since I was a little kid; she’s like the mascot of this place. Cats live a long time here,” he added, at Gimli’s questioning look. “Must be the air.”

The air, or maybe the elves themselves – something about them that kept everything around them just a little younger than it should have been, just a little more sturdy. “How old is she then?”

“Late twenties now?” Thranduil mused. “She was only a kitten when she moved in” – moved in, Gimli noted, as if it had been a business negotiation – “but we didn’t know how old exactly.”

“But I was only a few years old,” said Legolas. “So yeah, must be late twenties. She was my best friend when I was little, Gimli. But she’s got a good few years left in her. Don’t you, Smudge? Come here!” He clicked his tongue.

Apparently, the cat’s ire was no more serious than Thranduil’s, for she hopped down from his chair and pattered her way across the floor back to Legolas’s beckoning fingers. When she reached them, though, he swept a hand under her and scooped her tiny body into the air as she squawked in displeasure. But Legolas only laughed, holding her up above his head as her paws flailed in the air.

“Ohh, you’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you,” he cooed, and lowered her onto his chest. “Come here, yes, that’s it.” In the same motion she had applied to Thranduil, Smudge drove her head into Legolas’s face, their noses colliding as Legolas giggled again. “Do you forgive me for leaving? Yes, I missed you, too. Oh, yes” – He laughed helplessly as the cat nuzzled his face, his neck, her paws now kneading at his chest. “Come here, I have someone for you to meet.” And without further ado he scooped her up again, sliding his whole body upright in the same motion, to present her to Gimli.

“Be careful,” Thranduil warned. “She doesn’t always take to strangers.”

“It’ll be okay,” said Legolas. “Just give her your hand to sniff.”

Gimli extended it cautiously. He’d never been much of a cat person – had never really understood how they ticked. But if this cat loved Legolas, surely they had at least that in common, right?

Her whiskers tickled his fingers, her nose cold and wet and velvety as it brushed just against his fingertips: once, twice. She withdrew, as if thinking – and then, cautiously, she nuzzled up against him just as she had with Legolas and Thranduil.

Gimli glanced to Legolas, and at his encouraging nod, he dared to scratch her behind the ears, too.

“She likes you,” said Legolas, grinning. “See, I told you she would!” He rested a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, warm and reassuring and meaningful. “Everybody does.”

In that moment, Gimli wasn’t sure Legolas was talking about the cat.

He flicked his eyes across the room to where Thranduil still sat, watching them – still with that tiny, almost soft smile, as though at the sight of his son, all of his dryness couldn’t help but fall away.

At least they had that in common. And Gimli felt, all of a sudden, a rush of fondness for Thranduil – for his father-in-law – for the home he had made for Legolas here, for the love he felt for his son and his cat. For sharing his fancy furniture and his expensive wine with Gimli, for welcoming him here, for the sake of the person they both loved.

And as an irrepressible smile began to bloom on his face in turn, as he relaxed back into his seat, Gimli thought that the sofa might have become just a touch more comfortable than it was.

#modverse #my fic #adventures in cowriting #cats #legolas x gimli #thranduil #smudge the cat #don't reblog this yet there's going to be a picture

[ayeforscotland]

Could you please do a quick sum-up of what's going on with Sturgeon stepping down and where the party and Scotland are/might be heading? I avoid news outlets for the sake of my mental health, but now I'm wondering how worried I need to be given that the woman I've seen being discussed seems very right-wing. Do you think we'll end up with a Tory in yellow? I'm really frightened of that/the way the world in general is going, so a rational answer from yourself would be grand.

Sure - so after 8 years of governance, Nicola Sturgeon has resigned as First Minister. I’m not going to speculate too much on the reason because it’s not super clear.

Now, personally, I think Nicola Sturgeon has messed up a bit here, as it looks like there was little no proper planning for a successor. Nobody has really been groomed for a leadership role.

So there was a lot of hesitancy from SNP MSPs to put their names forward. We’ve ended up with Humza Yousaf, Kate Forbes, and Ash Regan.

This is where the SNP went wrong in my mind, there’s lots of good talent on the progressive side but instead of putting themselves forward, they rallied around Humza. This isn’t because I think Humza is particularly bad, but having more progressives would have helped dilute the voices of the other two.

Kate Forbes is appealing more broadly to the right of the party. Typical lines like ‘being a safe pair of hands’ with finances - the issue is that it lends itself to a lot of Tory ‘we must tighten the belt’ type policies.

She’s also anti-LGBT, anti-abortion and, baffling in 2023, anti-sex before marriage. I believe over half of Scottish kids are born out of wedlock so I don’t quite know who she’s appealing to. That being said she’s won over the ‘She just speaks her mind’ crowd which has been a right-wing excuse for decades if not centuries.

Ash Regan looks to be appealing to the hardcore independence above all gang - she knew she wouldn’t get that much support from the party so immediately extended a hand to Alba & fringe pro-independence groups. Really trying to play into being a ‘unity for independence’ candidate. I don’t think she’ll have too much support from within the party, and she’s using this platform to boost her own reputation.

Humza Yousaf is being portrayed by the Forbes and Regan as the ‘continuity candidate’ as if winning every election in the past 8 years has been a bad thing. He’s pro-equality, unequivocal in his support for the recently passed GRA reform, and plans to continue the roll out of progressive policies we’ve become quite used to. He wants to extend child care etc.

The vast majority of SNP members I know are voting for Humza, there’s a few I know who are going Forbes. I’ve not yet met anyone who’s voting for Regan.

The vote is a transferable one, so SNP members will rank candidates in order of preference. I’ve seen a lot of Humza supporters just outright not transferring their vote - this is why the other two candidates are bending over backwards to discredit the leadership election. They’re already complaining about ‘voter regret’ etc.

Either way, the SNP could split after this - if Humza wins, Forbes has absolutely nuked her career and won’t be offered a cabinet position. Regan might spit the dummy and join Alba, becoming Alex Salmond’s successor.

[franceblr]

i was listening to hold up by beyoncé and i was struck by the epiphany of a newly crowned firelord zuko absolutely DEMOLISHING ozai’s chambers and going batshit crazy on all of his personal stuff; i’m talking tearing off curtains and tapestry, setting his bed on fire, going through his writing desk’s cupboards and yanking them out one by one, ripping documents and personal notes and throwing them up in the air, pulling out every single volume in his father’s personal library and then setting a giant fire to the pile, smashing mirrors and throwing toiletries on the ground, bashing cabinets and throwing whatever’s closest at the windows and busting them, defenestrating ozai’s robes and bedsheets and burning to ash whatever is left.

and okay it’s definitely a scene and there’s a crowd of worried guards and servants and ministers standing outside the doorway and whispering animatedly to themselves, but nobody’s got the courage to intervene or say anything when zuko looks so delighted and furious and heartbroken and so so happy

even as he wails and his hair has fallen down from its usual topknot and nobody can tell if his crazed laughter is good or bad. and okay, zuko may be losing it a little and a servant is sent to go get sokka, who rushes to ozai’s room thinking he’ll have to talk zuko out of a mental breakdown.

except sokka finds zuko absolutely beaming in the midst of flames and ash and scattered paper and shards of glass, and alright, it may be a little deranged and dramatic but it’s totally understandable, and honestly he’s not hurting himself and it looks like it might be doing him good too if his shrieking laughter is anything to go by, so they let him go at it until he’s worn himself out and satisfied, and back to his composed zuko demeanor. once he’s done with the demolition, zuko has the rooms remade from scratch to his liking and taste, which become his and sokka’s new chambers.

just imagine how much pent up aggression and anger and hurt there still is after all these years of abuse and betrayal and neglect, and he never got to take it out on ozai who’s rotting away in a cell all in one piece, but zuko just has to get it out of his system or he’ll lose it for real. and even as he’s panting from the exertion and his eyes burn from the smoke, even as sokka looks at him with sympathy and concern, his heart feels lighter and his mind is calm and quiet for the first time in years.

#zukka #zuko x sokka #no listen i have a thing for feral zuko #and i think that since he didn’t kill ozai he at least gets to go batshit insane crazy over his father’s shit #as a treat #atla zukka

[rjalker]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin, is now available in English, transcribed into text from a single PDF scan of the story from Popular Magazine #81, v6.

This is, as far as I am aware, the only version of this story available in English besides the original PDF. You're welcome.

Links:

Read or download from the Web Archive.

Download (and, optionally, leave a tip) on Itch.io <-- now includes two audiobook versions!

Buy a physical copy from Lulu.com

@walks-the-ages, @internet--archive (thought you might like to be tagged, lol)

You can also read this short story under the read-more right here on tumblr. It is 9,051 words long, not including the title.

Summary, by me:

A crime so terrible it barely bears thinking about has been brought to the attention of cabinet minister Jean Rouxval, and he has taken it upon himself to bring those responsible for this horrible deed to justice.

But his plans to go it alone are brought up short when a detective by the name of Hercules Petitgris is assigned to assist him. Despite his poor appearance, detective Petitgris comes highly recommended. The suspects arrive, and Rouxval begins his interrogation, the proceedings watched over by the silent Petitgris as Rouxval takes the lead, driven by anger over the crime he has discovered. Little does he know that Petitgris got the case all worked out as soon as Rouxval started talking...

(Archived read-more link)

[read-more link was here]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin

Written by Maurice Leblanc,

“author of “The Hollow Needle,” “813,” “A Gentleman,” Ect.”

[Image description start: A black and white illustration with a black border, showing four characters. One is a man sitting at a desk, in a suit and tie, gesturing with one hand, while another man stands in front of the desk with his back to the viewer, one hand on his hip. Then a man and woman looking worried, the man with his hat off and hanging by his side, his other hand held out as he speaks, the woman with one hand to her face, the other clutching her chest. Image description end.]

Hands behind his back, head sunk deep in the collar of his coat, his harsh countenance contracted in deep thought, Jean Rouxval nervously paced up and down the length of his vast study. At the threshold the chief page, detailed to the service of of cabinet officers, awaited orders. The minister betrayed by his short, quick steps, his drawn brow, his agitation, that he was shaken by emotion which assail a strong man seldom, and only at crucial moment of his life.

Stopping suddenly, he said to the page in a determined voice:

“A lady and a gentleman, no longer very young, will arrive presently. You will ask them to wait in the drawing-room. Shortly after I expect a gentleman, younger and alone. You will conduct him to the yellow room. They are neither to speak nor to see each other. You understand? I am to be notified at once of their arrival.”

“Very well, sir,” said the page, and withdrew.

Jean Rouxval’s political ability lay mainly in his tremendous energy, his attention to detail and a determination to know a bit about everything, whether it concerned his department or not.

Having enlisted almost at once in 1914 to avenge his two sons – both of whom had seemingly vanished from the field of battle – and the subsequent death of his wife, the war had given him an excessive sense of the value of discipline, authority, and duty. Affairs in which he was concerned always discovered him ready to undertake the most serious responsibilities and consequently found him assuming the greatest amount of power. He won the esteem of his colleagues, but they were also a bit wary lest the exaggeration of his good qualities might not drag the cabinet into needless complications.

He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to give. He still had time to glance over the record of the frightful case which had caused him so much anxiety. Just then, however, he was interrupted by the telephone. He seized the receiver; the president of the council wished to speak to him.

He waited what seemed an endless time. Finally the president himself spoke. Answering, he said:

“Yes, Rouxval speaking, Mr. President.” He listened, seemed annoyed, and then replied in a bitter voice:

“Certainly, Mr. President, I shall receive the detective you are sending. But don’t you think I could have obtained the necessary information? Well, of course, if you insist, my dear president, and if this Hercules Petitgris is, according to you, a specialist in criminal investigation, he can attend the meeting I have arranged … Hello! … Hello! … Yes …. What? … My dear president. … This Petitgris may be… Really! Is it possible? Ah! Well, merely a supposition … That is-- Petitgris has all the perspicacity usually attributed to Arsène Lupin. … Yes, sir...Perfectly. … I shall wait for him. Hello! … You are quite right, my dear Mr. President. … The case is very serious, especially since certain rumors have already begun to be circulated. … If I do not arrive at an immediate solution, and if the truth of the matter is at all what we fear, it will be a frightful scandal and a disaster for the country. … Hello! … Yes, yes, rest easy, my dear Mr. President, I shall do the impossible to succeed. I will succeed. … I must succeed.”

After a few more words, Rouxval hung up, muttering between clenched teeth:

“I must! I must! What a scandal!” He was considering the various paths which might lead him to a successful solution, when he gradually became aware that some one was near him, some one who was not seeking to be noticed.

He turned his head and was dumbfounded by what he saw. All but next to him stood a shabby, wretched-looking individual, a poor devil, one might say, holding his hat in his hand in the humble attitude of a beggar asking alms.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“By the door, sir. The chief page was busy parking people right and left, so I beat it straight in.”

“But who are you?”

The stranger bowed respectfully and introduced himself:

“Hercules Petitgris – the specialist whom the president of the council just recommended to you, sir—”

“Oh, then you were listening?” Rouxval broke in peevishly.

“What would you have done in my place, sir?”

He was a sickly looking, pitiful object, sad-faced – his hair, mustache, his pinched nose, his thin cheeks, the corners of his mouth, all drooped pathetically.

His arms hung wearily in a long, greenish overcoat which seemed about to slip from his shoulders. He spoke in a disconsolate voice, not without care, but accenting certain words in a manner peculiar to the common people.

“I even heard you speak of me as a detective, Mr. Minister,” he continued. “Wrong, all wrong! I am not even on the police force. I was dismissed from headquarters for ‘weak character, drunkenness and laziness.’ Those were the terms of discharge.”

Rouxval was unable to conceal his amazement.

“I don’t understand. The president of the council has recommended you as a man with a disconcerting ability to diagnose clearly and correctly.”

“Disconcerting, Mr. Minister, is the right word. There are people who even believe I am Arsène Lupin, as the president was telling you. That is why some gentlemen consent to my services, in cases where no one has succeeded or could succeed, without looking too closely at my record or my character. Sure they say I am conceited and insolent to my employers. And then what? When one of my employers puts his foot in it and I see the point right off, haven’t I the right to tell him, have a little laugh on the side? On the level, Mr. Minister, I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing. They are funny! You ought to see the faces on them.”

In that melancholy face, under the drooping mustache, the left side of his mouth curled up in a little, silent sneer, uncovering a huge tooth – the tooth of a wild beast. It gave him a look of sardonic joy for a moment. With a tooth like that the possessor would bite, and bite deeply.

The minister was not afraid of being bitten, but the stranger certainly did not appeal to him, and if the president of the council had not so insistently recommended him, Rouxval would have gotten rid of him promptly.

“Sit down,” he said gruffly. “I am about to question three people and have them face each other in my presence. In case you have any remarks to make, you will make them to me directly.”

“To you directly, Mr. Minister, and in a whisper, as I always do when I always see my chief putting his foot in it.”

Rouxval frowned. In the first place, he hated people who did not know their place – like many men of action, he was very sensitive and keenly feared ridicule. Concerning his efforts the phrase “putting his foot in it” seemed particularly outrageous and almost an intentional menace. But he had already rung; the page entered. Without further delay Rouxval ordered the there people brought to him.

Hercules Petitgris took off his worn, green overcoat, folded it carefully and sat down.

The lady and gentleman were the first to enter. They were evidently aristocrats, and both in deep mourning; she, still young, tall and very beautiful, with a lovely face, pale and austere, framed in graying hair; he, slightly shorter, slim, elegant, his mustache almost white.

Jean Rouxval addressed him:

“The Count de Bois-Vernay, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. My wife and I received your summons, which I confess, startled us a bit. But may we hope it has no ominous portent? My wife is not very strong.”

He looked toward her with affectionate solicitude. Rouxval asked them to be seated and answered:

“I am sure everything will be suitably arranged and that Madame de Bois-Vernay will excuse the slight inconvenience I have caused her.”

The door opened. A man between twenty-five and thirty entered. He was of more modest mien, not very carefully dressed; his countenance, though frank and kindly, gave evidences of dissipation and weariness, confusing one’s estimate of his fair, broad-shouldered young man.

“You are Maxime Leriot?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You do not know this lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir,” answered the newcomer, looking straight at the count and countess.

“No, we do not know this gentleman, either,” said the count in answer to a question of Rouxval’s.

The minister smiled. “I regret that this interview should begin with a statement which I am forced to disbelieve. But that little error will right itself at the proper time. Without haste and without undue delay over nonessentials, let us begin at the beginning.”

He opened the records on the table, turned to Maxine Leriot and in a slightly hostile tone said:

“We shall begin with you, sir. You were born in Dollincourt, Maine-et-Loire. Your father was a hard-working peasant who starved himself to give you a suitable education. The mobilization of 1914 found you a private in the infantry. Four years later you were an adjutant, with the croix de guerre and five citations for bravery. After the war you reenlisted. Toward the end of 1920 you were in Verdun. Your papers gave you credit for ‘ability as an officer.’

“But, about the middle of November, in the same year, came a bolt from the blue. One night in a third-rate dance hall, after opening ten bottles of champagne, you lost your head in a senseless brawl. You were arrested. You were taken to the post. You were searched. On you were found one hundred thousand francs. Where did you get that amount of money? You were never able to explain.”

Maxine Leriot protested:

“I beg your pardon, sir, I said that I had received the money from a person who wished to remain anonymous.”

“A worthless explanation!” said the minister. “Nevertheless, an inquiry was instituted by the military authorities. It came to nothing. Six months later, after obtaining your discharge from the service, you were again the center of another scandal,. This time your bill fold contained forty thousand francs in war bonds. And concerning these, too – silence and mystery. And again no explanation as to your means of livelihood or any reason for the dissipated existence you were leading. No position, no resources to speak of, yet money flowed through your fingers as if they supply were endless.

“The special detectives assigned to your case at the time could discover nothing, and you continued from bad to worse. Chance only, or a misstep on your part, could undo you. And that is what happened. One day, beneath the Arc de Triomphe, a man approached a woman who came there each day to pray, and said in a low voice, ‘I expect your husband’s letter to-morrow. Warn him – otherwise—‘

“The man’s attitude was surly, his tone snarling and menacing. The lady was frightened and quickly sought her motor. Must I specify that one of these persons was you, Maxime Leriot, and the other the Countess de Bois-Vernay, and only a moment ago you pretended not to know each other?”

Rouxval abruptly held up his hand. “I beg of you, sir,” he said to the count, who was about to interrupt, “do not try to deny the evidence. The episode occurred near me, for I also go regularly to the sacred tomb each week to pray for my sons. It was I who overheard the whispered threat; and it was for my own enlightenment, without knowing any of the facts which I have just related to you, that I undertook to discover who the man was, and the identity of his victim, in this too-apparently blackmailing scheme.”

The count said nothing. His wife did not stir. In his corner Hercules Petitgris nodded his head and seemed to approve the conduct of the investigation. Jean Rouxval, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, felt reassured. The tooth was not to be seen; therefore all was well. Rouxval continued, forging additional links in his chain of evidence.

“From the moment when circumstances placed the direction of this affair in my hands, it took quite a different turn, perhaps because I saw it in one light rather than another. Instead of Maxime Leriot, the man of to-day, I immediately saw the soldier of yesterday. His past interested me more than his present. Instantly, the moment I glanced at his record, two things struck me forcibly – a name and a date: Maxime Leriot was in Verdun, and he was there in the month of November, 1920 – that is, at the time when the anniversary of the armistice was to be celebrated and when most the solemn of ceremonies was about to take place.

“I went there and directed and inquiry on the spot, which proved neither very long nor difficult. His former battalion chief, whom I questioned, showed me an old order of that date over his signature, which also struck me forcibly. It seemed the key to the situation. The leader of one of the eight funeral cars, brought from eight different points along the great field of battle and bearing the bodies of eight nameless heroes, one of which was to be the Unknown Soldier-- this leader was none other than Adjutant Leriot himself.”

Jean Rouxval struck the desk with his fists, straining every muscle in his anger. Then in a muffled voice, deliberately emphasizing every word, he said:

“You, Maxime Leriot, were in the gallery of the fort where this historic ceremony took place; you were one of the guard of honor. Your heroism, your fame in military annals, caused you to be among those chosen for a part in this ceremony, amid the tricolor flags of your country and the trophies of victory in the great mortuary chapel. You – you were there—”

Overcome by emotion, Rouxval was forced to interrupt his vehement denunciation. It was necessary, moreover, to state facts more accurately and with less passion if the purport of his secret thought was to be clearly understood. Hercules Petitgris continued to nod his head approvingly, which only served to fan the flame of the minister’s ardor.

The former adjutant did not utter a sound. Like troops piercing an enemy line came Rouxval’s accusations. Hesitant, then stronger and stronger, and with greater force they had overwhelmed the foe before he could recover himself. The count listened and looked anxiously at his wife.

“Until this point in my investigation, I have only vague forebodings, no definite suspicions, no clews to lead me. I dared not understand. It was in this spirit, terrified, aghast, that I sought proofs of what I feared to know. These proofs were irrefutable. To begin: On All Saint’s Day, again the third of November, the fourth and the fifth, Adjutant Leriot, whose daily life I succeeded in reconstructing exactly, went, as soon as darkness had fallen, to an isolated inn.

“there he met a lady and gentleman with whom he remained in conference until dinner time. This lady and gentleman came to the inn in an automobile from a near-by city where they stayed at a certain hotel, the name of which I secured. I then went to this hotel and asked to see the register. From the first to the eleventh of November, 1920, two guests had been there – the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay.”

A silence; the pallor of the countess deepened; Rouxval drew from the records two sheets of paper which he unfolded.

“Here are two birth certificates. The one of Maxime Leriot, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is yours, Maxime Leriot. The other, Julian de Bois-Vernay, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is your son’s, Monsieur de Bois-Vernay. Therefore, we may say, the same birthplace, the same age – two facts granted. Here is a letter from the mayor of Dolincourt. The two young men had had the same nurse. In youth they continued the friendship of their childhood. They enlisted at the same time. Again uncontestable facts.”

Rouxval went on reading from the documents as fast as he turned the pages.

“Here is the death certificate of Julian de Bois-Vernay; died in 1916 at Verdun. Here is a copy of the burial permit for the cemetery of Douaumont. Here is an extract of the report of Adjutant Leriot, who ‘brought back from a trench running along the road to Fleury-à-Bras and near an old surgical service station, the remains, in good condition, of an unknown infantryman.’

“Finally, here is a relief map of the whole scene of action. The old service station is here, about five hundred meters from the cemetery where Julian de Bois-Vernay lay buried. I went from one to the other. I had that tomb opened – it is empty! What has become of the coffin of Julian de Bois-Vernay? Who removed it from the cemetery of Douaumont, if not you, Maxime Leriot? You, his friend, and the friend of the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay!”

Each sentence Rouxval uttered lent force to the final charge which the accumulated evidence imposed. The enemy was surrounded by undeniable arguments. There remained nothing but submission.

Rouxval, coming closer to Leriot and looking at him squarely, continued:

“This sinister venture is written on the pages of an open book. We know that the coffin of your foster brother was first taken from Douaumont, where he had been buried in an ordinary grave, to the trench where you were sent to secure the body of an unidentified combatant. We know that you took it there, and we know that it was this coffin which you brought to the fort at Verdun. In this we agree, I am sure. And the sequel – the choice, the supreme hour among the eight unknown—”

Again Rouxval could not go on. He mopped the sweat from his brow and tried to regain his composure. In a few moments he managed to continue in the same muffled and anguished voice:

“I hardly dare paint that scene. The slighted doubt in that direction is blasphemy. And yet, is this not rather a certainty than a doubt? Ah, what a frightful imposture! How did you ever succeed in your infamous plan? Answer—answer me!”

Jean Rouxval questioned, but it seemed as if he were afraid to hear the answer. His voice did not carry the authority which brings confession. A long silence ensued, fraught with uneasiness and anxiety. Madame de Bois-Vernay breathed the salts her husband gave her. She seemed very weak and on the verge of fainting. Maxime Leriot turned to the count, mutely asking his help. The count looked toward his wife, afraid to begin a dangerous struggle, asking himself upon what ground he would stand.

Then the count arose and said:

“Mr. Rouxval, because you have so shaped this interview, we there sit here facing you as if we were guilty. Before defending ourselves against an accusation, the meaning of which we do not yet clearly understand, we should like to know by what right you question us and by what right you demand our answers.”

“By the right, sir,” answered Rouxval, “of my great desire to suppress infamy, which, if it became public property, would injure my country inestimably.”

“If the affair is such as you have outlined it, Mr. Minister, there is no reason to believe it will become known to the public.”

“You are wrong, sir. Under the influence of alcohol, Maxime Leriot has talked. What he said was not understood, but various interpretations and rumors have been circulated—”

“False rumors, Mr. Minister,” broke in De Bois-Vernay.

“That makes no difference. They must be stopped.”

“How?”

“Maxime Leriot must leave France. A position will be found for him in southern Algeria. You will, I am sure, furnish him with the necessary funds.”

“And ourselves, Mr. Minister?”

“You will also leave – both you and madame. Far from France, you will be safe from further blackmail.”

“Exile, then?”

“Yes, for a few years.”

The count again turned to his wife.

Notwithstanding her pallor and frailty, she conveyed an impression of vitality and obstinate determination. She leaned forward and said firmly:

“Not a day, sir! Not for an hour will I leave Paris.”

“And why not, madame?”

“Because my son is there. In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

Those few words, that explicit, frightful avowal, seemed to drop into a pit of silence, which echoed and re-echoed, syllable by syllable,a message of death and sorrow. In Madame de Bois-Vernay’s attitude there was more than an expression of an unconquerable will – there was a defiance and the calm acceptance of a challenge which she did not seem to fear. Nothing could change the fact that her son lay under the Arc de Triomphe, and no power on earth could trouble his last sleep in that tomb of glory.

Rouxval held his head in his hands, desperate. Until that moment he had been able to keep, in the face of all evidence, some illusion of an impossible justification. The confession took the ground from under his feet.

“It is really true!” he murmured brokenly, “I did not really believe – I could not admit it even to myself – it is beyond all reason!”

Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, standing between the countess and Rouxval, begged her to sit down. She pushed him aside, ready for the struggle, determined and defiant.

Only two adversaries now faced each other, implacable enemies, with the count and Maxime Leriot mere accessories.

Scenes of such extreme nervous tension must necessarily be of short duration, when from the first each one throws every ounce of power into the grueling struggle. What further enhanced the tragedy of this duel was the calm, the intense quiet with which it was waged. Not a loud tone, no apparent anger, simple words, radiating emotion. Simple sentences, no oratory, revealing the depth of Rouxval’s amazement and horror.

“How dared you? How do you continue to live, knowing what you do? I, myself, would have borne any agony rather than permit such a deed for one of my sons. It would seem to me I had brought him ill luck in his last sleep. Given him a tomb which was not rightfully his! Diverted to him the prayers, the tears, all the holy thoughts which flow over a loved one, dead! What an abomination! Can’t you see that?”

He glared at her, opposite him, tense and white, and continued more aggressively:

“There are hundreds – no, thousands! -- of mothers and wives who may believe that their son, their husband lies there. These bereaved women, as sorely smitten as you, with the same rights to seek consolation there – these women have been betrayed, pilfered, robbed – yes, robbed and vilely robbed!”

The countess shrank under these insults, this contempt. She had surely never paused a moment to consider her course of action in itself; certainly she had never weighed its ethical values. She had reacted impulsively, moved by the bitter suffering of a mother seeking to regain a small part of the son so cruelly torn from her; for the rest – nothing mattered.

Murmuring, almost in a dream, she answered:

“He did not rob any one. He is the Unknown Soldier. He is there in the place of the others; he represents them all—”

Rouxval seized her arm. Her words exasperated him. He thought of his own lost ones, whose remains he had almost found again that day of solemn burial and consecration. Now they had vanished once more in a fathomless abyss. Where now could one pray? Where find the dear ones, gone forever?

But the countess smiled, her face transformed by the happiness which fairly irradiated her whole being.

“It was circumstance which caused him to be chosen among all the others,” she said. “What I did, alone, would not have sufficed, if there had not been a greater will than mine in his favor. Chance might have assigned the honor to some soldier who did not deserve it, either in his life or in his death. My son was worthy of the reward.”

“All were worthy!” protested Rouxval vehemently. “Even if during his life he had been the most obscure, the most odious of men, the soldier chosen by destiny became, in that instant, the equal of the greatest!”

She shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with a contemptuous pride. Before her rose the ghosts of a hundred proud ancestors and the heroic dead of her country acclaiming her son the chosen one, born for glory.

“This has happened for the best, sir,” she said. “Believe in me and rest assured that I have stolen no tears, no prayers. Every mother who kneels there and weeps, prays for her dead son. Does it really matter if it is my son, if she does not know it?”

“But I know it,” said Rouxval, “and they may find it out! And then what? Can you imagine what will happen – the anger, the hate, the wild scenes of unbridled fury? No crime in the would would arouse such indignation! Can’t I make you understand?”

Little by little he was losing control of himself. He despised this woman. Her exile seemed more and more the only solution which could avert a calamity and at the same time appease his own pain.

Without any attempt to spare her, he said roughly:

“You must go, madame. Your presence at that grave is an outrage to every other woman. Go, and go now!”

“No, I will not,” she said.

“You will; you must! With you out of the country, their wrongs will be partially righted; the soldier there will once more become the Unknown Soldier.”

“No, no, no! What you ask is impossible. I could not live away from him. If I had to continue to live, it is only because he is there, because I can see him each day, speak to him, and hear him speak to me. Oh, you cannot understand how I feel when I stand there in the crowd! They come from every corner of France, bringing their offerings of flowers, of tears, of prayers. There are moments when I am so overwhelmed by a wave of happiness and pride that I almost forget he is dead. I see my son alive – alive and standing beneath that arch, smiling at me as I kneel before him. And you dare ask me to give up all of that! It is madness. It would be like killing my beloved child a second time!”

Rouxval clenched his hands, to restrain himself from killing this ungovernable woman. He knew now that she was stronger than he was. Driven to desperation, he threatened:

“You force me to the worst. If you do not go – I swear – I swear that I will denounce you! I will unmask you to the whole world rather than permit this ghastly imposture to continue --”

She laughed mockingly.

“Denounce me? Is it possible? You will denounce me and inform the world about this imposture which causes even you to tremble?”

“Nothing, nothing can stop me!” he cried. “I shall do my duty even if it kills me. Your trickery has made life intolerable. If you do not go, madame, he shall go – the body of your son shall be --”

She quivered, stricken by the brutal words. The frightful image of that poor body, torn from the tomb, roughly handled and cast into another grave, was more than she could bear. Tears came to her eyes; with a cry of pain her hand went to her heart. The count made a vain attempt to reach her as she tottered and fell to the floor, unconcious.

The duel was nearing an end. Wounded to the depths, but triumphant, she fell, not yielding a step in her struggle. The count carried her, still unconcious, to the couch with the assistance of Leriot and Hercules Petitgris. She was stifling, grinding her teeth, still fighting in her coma.

“Oh, how could you, how could you hurt her so!” exclaimed De Bois-Vernay.

But Rouxval made no excuses for his conduct. A temperament which drove him to extremes, when he had curbed his desires too long, did not allow him time for reflection or regret in a crisis. He saw red. The problem seemed to him so hopeless he would have stopped at nothing, however ridiculous, to solve it.

What difference did it make what he did, as long as he did something? It seemed as if his revenge were already nearer, if he could only proceed in some way. Action became a necessity. Should he call the president of the council? The telephone! He seized the receiver and, as soon as the president answered, gasped out breathlessly:

“Yes, Rouxval, Mr. President. … I must speak to you immediately, in person… You’re not free? ...In half an hour? ...All right. In half an hour I shall be there. Thanks. Situation serious. ...Quick action… Yes...Later.”

The countess was being cared for by the three men. She was evidently subject to these attacks, as her husband had a small case of medicine from which he quickly administered a dose. He took off his overcoat, knelt beside her, and tended her in an agony of fear which all but suffocated him, speaking to her constantly, as if she could hear him.

“It is your heart, darling, isn’t it? Your poor heart! But you are better, aren’t you? You are better – your cheeks have a little color – I know you are better. Are you, dearest?”

Madame de Bois-Vernay remained in the swoon several minutes, but at last her eyelids fluttered and she slowly regained consciousness.

As soon as she saw Rouxval she gave a cry of distress.

“Take me away! Let us go. I cannot stay here!”

“But, dearest, be reasonable. You must rest a few minutes.”

“No, no, not a moment! We must go. I cannot stay.”

The count begged Leriot’s aid, it was he who carried the countess from the room, while the count followed, completely upset, having been assisted into his overcoat by Hercules Petitgris.

Rouxval had not stirred. One might have thought that he had no connection whatever with the scene which had just taken place. These people, guilty of the most odious crime, were beyond his sympathies; he did not feel he owed either pity or kindness to a woman like the countess. With his head pressed against the windowpane he tried to think of a reasonable course of action. Why talk to the president of the council? Would it not be better to finish the affair and get in touch with headquarters, with the department of justice?

“Come now,” he said to himself, “no nonsense; a level head at any price!”

He decided to go as far as the president’s home; the walk there, the cool air, might calm his overwrought nerves. Taking his hat and stick from the stand, he started on his errand. To his surprise he found Petitgris sitting on a chair in front of the door, completely in shadow. He evidently had not left the study.

“Well, it’s you,” said Rouxval. “Still here?”

“Yes, Mr. Minister, and I cannot advice you too strongly to keep me company.”

Rouxval was annoyed and about to reprove him for his familiarity when a second glance at the man gave him a sudden shock. He noticed that the huge tooth of the detective was clearly visible, under a curling lip. He could not have been more discomfited if he had seen a ghost rise in front of him. The appearance of that tooth, long, white and pointed, the tooth of a wild animal, could only mean one thing – Rouxval was being jeered at, mocked.

“Confound it, I certainly have not put my foot in it!” said Rouxval to himself, remembering Petitgris’ words.

He pulled himself together. A cabinet minister, used to handling men and affairs of state, does not go “putting his foot in it.” Nor does he step into the pitfalls which trip the unwary. Having risen to such a position, he sees clearly, and goes straight to the goal. Yet the sight of that tooth troubled him. Why – what did it mean at this time? To reassure himself, he blamed the detective.

“If one of us has put his foot in it, it is that scamp. This whole thing is perfectly clear; any college boy could see that,” argued the minister to himself.

As clear as it was, however, he answered Petitgris by asking surlily:

“What is it? I’m in a hurry. Speak up!”

“Speak up, Mr. Minister?” he repeated. “I have nothing to say.”

“What do you mean, nothing to say? I don’t suppose you expect to sleep here?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Minister.”

“Well then?”

“Well, I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For something which is sure to happen.”

“What ‘something?’”

“Patience, a little patience, Mr. Minister! You are certainly more interested in knowing it than I am. It won’t be long, anyway – only a few minutes—at the most about ten minutes. Yes, just about ten minutes.”

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Rouxval. “The confessions these people have made are perfectly explicit.”

“What confessions, Mr. Minister?”

“What confessions? Why, Leriot’s, the count’s, and his wife’s!”

“The countess’, perhaps. But the count confessed nothing; neither did Leriot,” said the detective.

“What are you trying to put over now?”

“I’m not trying to put anything over, Mr. Minister; it’s a fact. You might say, the truth, the two men didn’t open their mouths. Only one person talked, and that was you, Mr. Minister.”

Without paying any attention to Rouxval’s threatening attitude, he continued:

“A wonderful speech, really, and I sure did appreciate it. What an orator! In the senate you would have been a riot! An ovation, publicity, and all the rest of it. Only a speech is not all that is needed. When you are trying to dig facts out of a criminal, you don’t stuff him with talk. On the contrary, you question him. You get him to gab. And then you listen. That’s the way to get to the bottom of things. If you think Mr. Petitgris was just snoozing in the corner, you can bet you made a mistake. Mr. Petitgris never took his eye off those two codgers, especially that Bois-Vernay. And that’s why I’m telling you, Mr. Minister, that in eight minutes some one is coming and something will happen – in seven minutes and a half.”

Rouxval was floored. He did not give the least credence to Petitgris’ predictions not to the special announcement that “something” was going to happen. But the man’s tenacity held him. And that canine tooth, which gave him an expression at once arrogant, fierce, wicked, enigmatic--

The minister capitulated, and returned to the other end of the room, where he gave vent to his rage by tapping furiously on the desk with a pen handle, by nervously moving the desk appointments about, by looking at the clock and watching Petitgris out of the corner of his eye.

The detective sat quite still, only moving once. He tore a sheet of paper from a pad, came to the desk, borrowed Rouxval’s own pen with an air of authority, and rapidly write a few lines. He folded the paper in half, put it in an envelope and slipped it under a magazine, which happened to be near the desk edge. Then he sat down.

What did it all mean? Why did he continue to sneer with that mysterious, abominable tooth? Three minutes. Two minutes. Rouxval, in a sudden burst of anger, jumped up and again started striding up and down the room, knocking over a chair, jostling against a table and upsetting all the bric-a-brac. This whole case was stupid. That blockhead Petitgris and his devilish tooth had unnerved him.

“Listen, Mr. Minister,” mumbled the detective, holding up his hand. “Listen!”

“Listen to what?”

“Footsteps! Listen. Some one is knocking.”

Someone was knocking. Rouxval recognized the discreet tap of the page.

“He is not alone,” asserted Petitgris.

“What do you know about it?”

“He can’t be alone, because what I told you would happen is going to happen, and it can’t happen unless some one else comes in.”

“Well, confound it, what is it that is going to happen?”

“the truth, Mr. Minister. There are times, when the hour has struck, that nothing can prevent the truth from being known. It comes in at the window if the door is closed. But the door is so near, Mr. Minister, you don’t want to stop me from opening it, will you, Mr. Minister?”

Rouxval, beside himself with rage, opened the door.

The page looked in. “Mr. Minister, the gentleman who left here a little while ago with the lady is asking for his overcoat.”

“His overcoat?”

“Yes, sir; the gentleman forgot it, or rather he got the wrong one.”

Hercules Petitgris explained:

“He is right, Mr. Minister. I see a mistake has been made. The gentleman took my overcoat and left me his. Perhaps the gentleman can come in and—”

Rouxval acquiesced. The page went out, and almost immediately Monsieur de Bois-Vernay entered.

After the overcoats had been exchanged, the count, having bowed to Rouxval, who carefully looked the other way, started to leave the room. On the threshold, grasping the handle of the door, he hesitated, murmured a few words scarcely audible, stopped and re-entered the room.

“The ten minutes are up, Mr. Minister,” whispered Petitgris. “Consequently, ‘something’ is going to happen.”

Rouxval waited. Events seemed to occur as the detective had predicted.

“What do you wish, sir?” inquired the minister.

After a few minutes’ hesitation Monsieur de Bois-Vernay asked:

“Mr. Minister, are you really going to denounce us? The consequences would be so serious that I am taking the liberty of calling them to your attention. Think of the scandal – public clamor --”

Rouxval lost his temper.

“Will you tell me if I can do anything else?”

“Yes you can – you should. Everything can be arranged between us two, in a perfectly legitimate way. There is no reason why we should not come to some agreement.”

“I did propose an agreement, but Madame de Bois-Vernay would not hear of it.”

“She would not, but I will.”

Rouxval seemed surprised. Petitgris had already made the distinction between husband and wife a short time before.

“Explain yourself!”

The count seemed embarrassed. Irresolute, hesitating between sentences, he went on:

“Mr. Minister, I love my wife beyond words – and – sometimes I am weak enough to do things – for her which I know are – wrong, dangerous. That is what has happened. The death of our son so completely demoralized her – that twice – in spite of her deep religious sentiment – she tried to commit suicide. It became an obsession. In spite of my watchfulness, my every care, she would have carried out her intentions. But at an opportune moment Maxime Leriot came to see me. While talking to him about the war, our son – the idea came to me-- to combine – the Unknown—”

He shrank before the decisive words. Rouxval, more and more irritated, broke in:

“We are losing time, sir, since I know the result of your machinations. And that is all that matters.”

“It is precisely because the result alone matters that I am here. Because you discovered certain preparations, you concluded too hastily, perhaps because of your apprehension, that a sacrilege had been committed. That is not so.”

Rouxval did not understand.

“It is not so? Then why didn’t you protest?”

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“My wife would have had to hear me.”

“But Madame de Bois-Vernay herself confessed.”

“Yes, but I did not. It would have been a lie.”

“A lie! But the facts are there, sir! Do you want me to reread the records, the inquiries, the proofs that the body was removed, your meeting with Leriot?”

“Again, sir, may I say that these facts show definite preparations, but not the execution of a deed?”

“That is to say?”

“That is to say that there were meetings between Maxime and ourselves, and the body was removed. But I never, never had an idea of committing an act which I, too, should consider unforgivable sacrilege. For that matter, Maxime Leriot would never have consented.”

“Your idea then—” began the minister.

“My intention was to give my wife the --”

“To give her?”

“To give her the illusion, Mr. Minister.”

“The illusion?” repeated Rouxval mechanically, as the truth was beginning to dawn upon him.

“Yes, sir, an illusion which might sustain her, give her a faint desire to live – and which has sustained her until now. She believes it, Mr. Minister; she believes it! Try to imagine what that means to her! She believes her son is in that sacred tomb, and that belief has kept her alive.”

Rouxval bowed his head with his hand before his eyes. Overwhelmed by this sudden happiness, the restoration of his shrine, he feared they might see how disturbed he was.

With an affectation of indifference, he said:

“Ah, that is what happened! There was a pretense—” He stopped. “But how about all these proofs?”

“The proofs I took great care to accumulate, that she might have no doubts. She saw all, sir; she insisted upon being there during the entire proceedings: the removal of the body, the transfer to the funeral car. How could she have suspected that the funeral car did not go directly to the fort of Verdun, that our poor child is buried a little way on in a country cemetery where I go, when I can, to kneel at his grave and beg his forgiveness – his forgiveness for me and his absent mother.”

Rouxval was convinced that the count told the truth, that there was nothing in the evidence to contradict his statement of the facts as they had actually occurred.

“And Maxime Leriot’s part in this?”

“He obeyed my orders.”

“How about his actions since then?”

“Alas! The money he received turned his head, degraded him. It is my one great regret. The more I gave him, the more he wanted; that is why he threatened to reveal all to my wife. But rest assured, Mr. Minister, I will answer for him. He is really an honest, loyal soul, and has promised me he will leave the country at once.”

Rouxval meditated a moment and then said:

“Are you prepared to swear to the absolute truth of your statements?”

“I am prepared to swear to anything, provided my wife learns nothing and continues in her belief.”

“We agree in that, sir,” said the minister. “The secret shall be kept. I swear it.”

He took a sheet of paper and was about to ask the count for a written statement when Hercules Petitgris leaned over and whispered to him:

“There it is, Mr. Minister — under the magazine -- just lift it up and you’ll find it --”

“I’ll find what?”

“The statement. I drew it up a few minutes ago.”

“You knew?”

“You can just bet I knew! The count only needs to write his name on it.”

Rouxval, nonplused, pushed the magazine aside, snatched the paper and read:

I, the undersigned, Count de Bois-Vernay, acknowledge that I, with the connivance of Maxime Leriot, proceeded with certain arrangements in order to impress my wife with the conviction that our son was buried under the Arc de Triomphe. But I swear on my honor that no attempt was made by me, or by the said Maxime Leriot, to fulfill these arrangements and give my poor child the honors and resting place of the Unknown Soldier.

While Rouxval remained silent, the count, who was as astonished as the minister, slowly reread the document aloud, as if weighing each word.

“Quite right. I have nothing to add nor curtail. I should have written the same thing if I had drawn it up myself.”

He then affixed his signature without further hesitation.

“Mr. Minister, I must trust you,” he continued. “The slightest doubt on her part would cause the death of a mother who is guilty of nothing but too great a love for her child. I have your promise?”

“I have but one word to give, sir. I have given it. I shall keep it.”

He shook hands absent-mindedly with Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, accompanied him without a word to the door, closed it, and came back to the window where again he remained standing, with his head pressed to the windowpane.

“So Petitgris guessed the truth!” he mused. “In that chaos, that entanglement of fact and fancy, he saw the narrow path which led to the truth.”

Rouxval was distressed, angry; the pleasure he might otherwise have felt in seeing his case in another light was singularly diminished. Behind him he heard a tiny chuckle, undoubtedly the detective’s manifestation of triumph. It conjured up a vision of the pointed tooth, that terrible tooth.

“He has the laugh on me,” thought Rouxval. “He has known from the beginning. He maliciously let me put my foot in it. He could have warned me and he didn’t. What a beast!”

But his prestige as a cabinet officer would not permit him to remain in that humiliating position. He turned suddenly and taking the offensive said:

“Yes, yes, and then what? Luck was on your side! You probably discovered some clew—”

“Not a clew,” sneered Petitgris, who was not granting any favors. “What did you want clews for, anyway? Just a little bit of judgment, a grain of common sense, were all you needed.”

And with hideous good nature, he continued:

“Come on now, Mr. Minister! That long rigmarole of yours didn’t stand up at all. It was just bunk. Contradictions, omissions, impossibilities of every kind and color. Just a rotten scenario! That the countess should have bitten, all right, but you, a minister of your rank! Honestly, do you think people juggle with corpses in real life? Have a heart!

“They make every effort to have the Unknown Soldier be an unknown soldier! Arrangements for the public, funeral cars, functionaries, generals, brigadiers, ministers; in fact, the devil and his whole crew, and are you credulous enough to believe that any little gentlemen with cash in his pocket can afford the luxury of making a laughingstock of the world, and of burying an everlasting concession under the Arch de Triomphe! Well, I’ve heard some good ones, but that one has ‘em all beat.”

Rouxval restrained himself with difficulty and said:

“But the proofs—” began Rouxval.

“Those proofs – they were good enough for kids. I said to myself right away: ‘As long as the count couldn’t possibly afford the Arc de Triomphe, what was he cooking up with Leriot?’ Just as soon as I saw the way he looked at the wife I got it. ‘My boy, you're a good thing. Just to help the wife along, you’re going to play a little game and make her believe you did the real thing. But you’re a bit weak, too, and if my chief gets good and mad and threatens you, you’re going to give in.’ There’s the whole trick, Mr. Minister! Rage and threats on your part, and little Mr. Bois-Vernay gives in.”

“All right, well and good so far,” said Rouxval. “But you could not know he was coming back and that ‘something,’ as you put it, was going to happen.”

“Say, listen! What about the overcoat.”

“The overcoat?”

“Great Scott! how could he come back without it? He had to have some excuse to leave his wife and to confess before the department of justice put its nose in it.”

“Well?”

“Well, when he was leaving, I helped him on with my overcoat instead of his. He was all up in the air; he couldn’t see anything – but red. Then outside in the car, when he saw my cast-off, he jumped at the chance to run back here! D’ye get it? What do you think of that piece of work? I put over some better ones in my life, a couple of harder ones, but never a shrewder one. I got that without moving – a decision with hands in my pockets – and landed a punch that knocked the other fellow out. That’s some good job!”

Rouxval was silent; the cleverness, the ease with which Hercules Petitgris had handled the situation, disconcerted him. All alone in his corner, without interrupting the inquiry, without asking a question, and knowing nothing about the case, except what Rouxval himself was telling, Petitgris had really conducted the examination, guided the trend of questions, thrown light on the whole case. With one little move at the right moment he had managed to have the problem solve itself in the only way possible.

Rouxval put his hand in his pocket to draw out a bank note. But it went no farther. The detective sneered:

“Put it back, Mr. Minister. I’ve got mine.”

The tooth gleamed implacably. A frightful chuckle, and his face again resumed the fierce look of a wild animal. Could one help remembering the jeering words: “when one of my employers puts his foot in it, haven’t I the right to tell him, and have a little laugh? I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing! Are they funny? You ought to see the faces on them!

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Minister. I’ve had worse cases. Your big mistake was to rely too much on logic, and the logic of what you see and hear isn’t worth a nickel. The real logic runs underground like some rivers, and when it does run out of sight, then you have to keep your eye on it. That was where you lost your head. Instead of going into the details of that ceremony in the fort of Verdun, you turned away! ‘I hardly dare paint the scene. The slightest doubt in that direction is blasphemy!’

“Damn it all, Mr. Minister, that’s the time you should have gone ahead, investigated, put your whole mind to it! You would have seen there wasn’t a chance of a fraud. And what is more, Hercules Petitgris wouldn’t be laying down the law to-day to a cabinet minister in his own study.”

He had risen and was putting on the worn, green overcoat. Rouxval had a strong desire to take him by the neck and strangle him, but – he opened the door.

“Let us say no more about it. I shall advise the president of the service you have rendered us.”

“Oh, don’t bother!” returned the detective. “I’d rather do that myself.”

“Sir!” cried Rouxval.

“Well, what, Mr. Minister?”

Petitgris suddenly drew himself up and seemed to change personalities under the very eyes of the minister. He was no longer the poor devil begging alms, but a lively, self-possessed young man entirely at his ease. With thumb and forefinger he delicately removed the enormous tooth; the lines in his face changed; the horrible grin disappeared. He looked cheerful and gay, but still arrogant.

Rouxval asked:

“What does this mean? Permit me to ask who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance whatever,” he answered. “Let us say that I am Arsène Lupin. The memory of your recent mistake will perhaps be less bitter if you connect it with the name of Arsène Lupin, rather than with that of Hercules Petitgris.”

Rouxval showed him the door. The detective passed gracefully in front of the minister to the anteroom. In that doorway, he said:

“Good-bye, Mr. Minister-- and a word of advice: Don’t go out of your little world again. A case of shoemaker, stick to your last. Straighten out government squabbles, help them make the laws, but – when it comes to police work leave that to the specialist.”

He started to go. Would he never stop talking? He came back and said:

“After all, you may be right – perhaps I put my foot in it. Come to think of it, what proofs have we that the count did stop on the way, that he did not go through with his plot? It is quite possible, and he did make excellent plans! Well, it’s all over my head. Good-by, Mr. Minister.”

This time he had nothing more to add. He left the anteroom.

Rouxval returned slowly to his desk and sat down heavily. He was singularly troubled by the detective's last words. They were a last bite of that frightful tooth – a drop of distilled venom! He felt vaguely that he would always be in doubt, that his case would always remain a mystery. He knew it was absurd, but all the same – the proofs – the removal of the body – the transfer to the funeral car --

“Damn it all!” He cried, infuriated. “What an infernal bird he is! If ever I lay my hands on him again!”

But Rouxval knew that Petitgris was none other than Arsène Lupin, and Arsène Lupin was not one to be caught a second time.

#Rjalker reads The Overcoat of Arsene Lupin #Rjalker reads The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin #Rjalker reads Arsène Lupin #Arsene Lupin #Arsène Lupin #The Overcoat of Arsene Lupin #The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin #Hercules Petitgris #Jean Rouxval #Public Domain #Public domain characters #Public domain books #Public domain short stories #short story #mystery #detective #La Dent d'Hercule Petitgris #Le Pardessus d'Arsène Lupin #writing prompts #writing ideas #Leblanc Lupin #LeblancLupin

[empiredesimparte]

Charlotte: Are you going to do something? Napoléon V: I think so. Perhaps my advisors and ministers have already worked on these questions of independence with my father Charlotte: The Mayor seemed to say that your father had opened a file on the subject

Napoléon V: Knowing him, he must have worked to keep the islands in our territories, for military reasons Charlotte: Are you really considering this referendum?

Napoléon V: Why not? It's better now than when I'm unpopular Charlotte: It has nothing to do with you, and... You won't be unpopular Louis, ever. The French have seen you born and bred, you're a member of their family. You dedicate your life to them

Napoléon V: I know, but it's important for me to be accountable to the French, to all the French Charlotte: Independentists aren't the majority, they're just noisy and preoccupied with political infighting

Charlotte: By working with Monsieur le Maire, Polynesia can regain its calm, without making waves Napoléon V: How could this individual think that his Emperor is corrupt? Charlotte: I'm sure it's a misunderstanding Louis, he didn't mean to imply…

Napoléon V: What else then? Offering "a gift of 5 billion euros" to his superior, for the negotiation of a delicate political dossier, in order to prepare its conclusions without open debate… Sounds like a substantial and immoral bribe Charlotte: You're mixing things up, darling. It's simply a thank-you, and what he's proposing is common sense. We all want the same thing Napoléon V: I refuse in spite of everything, I'll act as I decide, free to make my own choices

Charlotte: Louis, this is stupid! You're creating problems where there aren't any! The mayor is a representative of the people too, you can't ignore that! Napoléon V: Would you have accepted the atoll? Charlotte: Of course! We might as well work together, rather than against each

Napoléon V: If you want an atoll rather than a house on the island, we can get it on our own, by saving money, without the influence of the Mayor Charlotte: Louis, do you hear yourself? We could save billions of euros and everyone would win, otherwise I wouldn't support it either

Charlotte: At least take the time to think about it. The mayor is an old man, it's not as if he's going to blackmail you for the rest of your reign, and he won't anyway, if we make sure he stays on as head of the Polynesian assembly…

Napoléon V: And if this gets out, how will we look? Charlotte: We've got the best agents in the country. You'll see, I'm sure the Prime Minister would be on my side too

Napoléon V: I'm above this little world of selfish scheming! I embody the Constitution! Charlotte: Louis… Napoléon V: Don't pout like that!

Napoléon V: I'll consult the files and my advisors, and I'll decide without the mayor, it's non-negotiable

Charlotte (chagrined): I never said you should accept right away. I simply think that the Mayor's offer is more honest than you'd like to see, and I hope you'll understand that when you think about it

Napoléon V: Don't cry, darling, I'm sorry I got carried away. It's nothing against you Charlotte: I'm not crying. I've just been emotional lately Napoléon V: I promise I'll think about it calmly

Charlotte: That's fine with me. Let's not fight over "so little"

Charlotte: I was so quick to think that we could have a dream place to come back to Napoléon V: I understand, love, such an offer is exhilarating. I don't blame you

Napoléon V: Whatever happens, we'll have this atoll, okay? I'll tell the mayor to register us as interested buyers Charlotte: Thank you Louis

⚜ Le Cabinet Noir | Bora-Bora, 14 Messidor An 230

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

The imperial couple met the mayor and deputy of Bora-Bora, Gaston Temasong. Temasong offered to guarantee the Emperor his place as head of French Polynesia, in exchange for a private atoll not far from Bora-Bora. Napoléon V was offended by this attempt at bribery, but worried about this independence movement, led by a certain Oscar Sang.

(An atoll is a coral island with a large lagoon at its center. These islands are part of archipelagos and are highly prized by certain billionaires)

⚜ Traduction française

Charlotte: Vas-tu faire quelque chose? Napoléon V: Je pense, je dois y réfléchir. Peut-être mes conseillers et ministres ont ils déjà travaillé sur ces questions d'indépendance avec mon père Charlotte: Monsieur le Maire avait l'air de dire que ton père a ouvert un dossier sur le sujet oui

Napoléon V: Le connaissant, il devait travailler à garder les îles dans nos territoires, pour des raisons militaires Charlotte: Envisages-tu réellement ce référendum ?

Napoléon V: Pourquoi pas ? Il vaut mieux maintenant qu'une fois que je serai impopulaire Charlotte: Tu ne seras pas impopulaire Louis, jamais. Les Français t'ont vu naître et grandir, tu es quelqu'un de leur famille. Tu dédies ta vie pour eux. C'est cela la monarchie

Napoléon V: Je sais, mais c'est important pour moi de rendre compte aux Français, tous les Français Charlotte: Les indépendantistes ne sont pas la majorité, ils sont simplement bruyants et ne se préoccupent que de luttes politiques intestines

Charlotte : En travaillant avec Monsieur le Maire, la Polynésie pourra retrouver son calme, sans faire de vagues Napoléon V : Comment cet individu a-t-il pu penser de son Empereur qu'il est corrompu ? Charlotte : Je suis persuadée qu'il s'est mal fait comprendre Louis, il ne voulait pas insinuer...

Napoléon V : Quoi d'autre alors ? Offrir un cadeau de 5 milliards d'euros à son supérieur, pour la négociation d'un dossier politique délicat, afin d'en préparer les conclusions sans débats ouverts... Cela ressemble à un pot-de-vin conséquent et immoral Charlotte : Tu mélanges tout, chéri. Il s'agit simplement d'un remerciement, ce qu'il propose est de bon sens. Nous voulons tous la même chose Napoléon V : Je refuse malgré tout, j'agirai comme j'en déciderai, libre de mes choix

Charlotte : Louis c'est idiot ! Tu crées des problèmes où il n'y en a pas ! Monsieur le Maire est un représentant du peuple lui aussi, tu ne peux pas l'ignorer Napoléon V : Tu aurais accepté l'atoll toi ? Charlotte : Bien sûr ! Nous aurions de belles vacances ici. Dans tous les cas, la Polynésie reste en Francesim et le Maire aussi. Autant travailler ensemble, que l'un contre l'autre. Cela écarterait la question et nous éviterait des dépenses

Napoléon V : Si tu veux un atoll plutôt qu'une maison sur l'île, nous pourrons l'obtenir par nos moyens, en économisant, sans l'influence du Maire Charlotte : Louis, tu t'entends ? On pourrait justement économiser plusieurs milliards d'euros, tout le monde en sortirait gagnant, sinon je ne l'appuierais pas non plus

Charlotte : Prends au moins le temps d'y réfléchir. Le maire est une personne âgée, ce n'est pas comme s'il allait te faire chanter pendant tout ton règne, et il ne le fera pas de toute façon, si nous nous assurons qu'il reste à la tête de l'assemblée polynésienne

Napoléon V : Et si cela s'ébruite, de quoi aurons-nous l'air ? Charlotte : Il n'y a pas de raisons, nous avons les meilleurs agents du pays. Tu verras, je suis persuadée que le Premier Ministre serait lui aussi de mon côté

Napoléon V : Je suis au-dessus de ce petit monde de manigances égoïstes ! J'incarne la Constitution ! Charlotte : Louis... Napoléon V : Ne fais pas cette moue

Napoléon V : Je consulterai les dossiers et mes conseillers, et j'aviserai, c'est non-négociable

Charlotte (chagrinée) : Je n'ai jamais dit que tu devrais accepter tout de suite. Je trouve simplement que l'offre du Maire est plus honnête que tu ne veux le voir, j'espère que tu le comprendras en réfléchissant au dossier

Napoléon V : Ne pleure pas chérie, pardon, je me suis emporté. Ce n'est pas contre toi Charlotte : Je ne pleure pas. Je suis émotive ces derniers temps Napoléon V : Je te promets de réfléchir à tout cela calmement

Charlotte : Ca me va. Ne nous disputons pas "pour si peu"

Charlotte : Je me suis si vite figurée que nous pourrions avoir un endroit de rêve pour revenir ici Napoléon V : Je comprends mon amour, une telle offre est grisante. Je ne t'en veux pas

Napoléon V : Quoiqu'il arrive, nous aurons cet atoll, d'accord ? Je dirai au Maire de nous inscrire comme acheteurs intéressés Charlotte : Merci Louis, tu es le meilleur

#simparte #ts4 #ts4 royal #royal simblr #sims 4 royal #sim : louis #sims 4 fr #sims 4 #gen 2 #sim : charlotte #le cabinet noir #bora bora #honeymoon #sims 4 royal simblr #sims 4 royal story #ts4 royalty #ts4 royal family #ts4 royal story

[sugdenlovesdingle]

Dutch prime minister (or acting prime minister again I guess) Mark Rutte has been in charge since 2010 (Let that sink in for a moment)

out of the four cabinets he's lead/formed only ONE served the full term. (imagine being that bad at your job)

first one collapsed because one party pulled their support and they lost their majority

second one served the full term

third one resigned (in January 2021) over a financial aid scandal (parents with low incomes can get financial support to help pay for child care, but a lot of parents with non western last names were unfairly labelled as having committed fraud)

and now this one collapsed because the biggest party (the prime minister's party) suddenly decided at the beginning of the week that a decision on a stricter inhumane immigration policy HAD to be made by today at the latest (because the summer holidays start today) while they knew the other parties in the cabinet didn't agree. But a collapsed government over immigration will please the racist right who might then support them in a possible fifth term (after new elections but knowing Dutch voters, they'll just vote for mark rutte's party again)

if you think your country is fucked - think again

#the netherlands #dutch politics

[theculturedmarxist]

A minister from the extremist Otzma Yehudit party says one of Israel’s options in the war in Gaza is to drop a nuclear bomb on the Strip.

Asked in an interview with Radio Kol Berama whether he was suggesting that some kind of nuclear bomb might be dropped on the enclave, Heritage Minister Amichai Eliyahu says “That’s one way.”

Eliyahu, of Itamar Ben Gvir’s far-right party, is not part of the security cabinet which is involved in the wartime decision-making, nor does he hold sway over the war cabinet directing the war against the Hamas terror group.

Eliyahu also voices his objection during the interview to allowing any humanitarian aid into Gaza, saying “we wouldn’t hand the Nazis humanitarian aid,” and charging that “there is no such thing as uninvolved civilians in Gaza.”

The Israeli prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, has disciplined a junior member of his cabinet who appeared to voice openness to the idea of Israel carrying out a nuclear strike on Gaza.

Netanyahu’s office said in a statement that the minister concerned – heritage minister Amihai Eliyahu from a far-right party in the coalition government – had been suspended from cabinet meetings “until further notice”.

Asked in a radio interview about a hypothetical nuclear option, Eliyahu replied: “That’s one way.” His remark made headlines in Arab media and scandalised mainstream Israeli broadcasters.

I think the global protests are starting to get to them.

[thewales]

The mail on Sunday:

A coalition of political grandees, senior military figures and respected historians last night urged the Duke and Duchess of Sussex to stay away from next year’s Coronation following the fallout from their incendiary Netflix series.

Amid a chorus of highly regarded voices calling on Harry and Meghan to stay at home, one former Cabinet Minister said the couple ‘categorically should not be’ at Westminster Abbey when Charles is crowned on May 6.

Former Conservative leader Iain Duncan Smith told The Mail on Sunday: ‘If they dislike the Royal Family so much why would they attend the Coronation?’

Fellow Tory veteran David Mellor echoed the sentiment, saying: ‘They shouldn’t come to the Coronation. They categorically shouldn’t come.

They make money out of selling their family down the river. I think it should be made clear that the British people do not want them there.’

He also suggested that people ‘would be perfectly entitled to boo if the couple did turn up’, adding: ‘They are a sad pair and there is no hope for them on their current course.’

Lady Antonia Fraser, the historian and author, added: ‘I hope they don’t come because I want the King and Queen to be the centre of attention. It worries me that if they come the cameras might waste time on them. They should stay holding hands in Hollywood.’

A poll for The Mail on Sunday today reveals almost half the public agree the couple should be barred from the Coronation.

Also, twice as many people think Prince Harry should be excluded from the line of succession and be stripped of his Duke Of Sussex title, compared to those who believe they should be allowed to maintain their status.

It is understood that the Royals still regard Meghan, Harry and their children as ‘much-loved’ members of the family, and intend to invite them to the Coronation.

#brf #the suxs

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 20, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

OCT 21, 2023

Last night, President Joe Biden spoke to the nation from the Oval Office to shore up U.S. support for Ukraine and Israel. “[H]istory has taught us that when terrorists don’t pay a price for their terror, when dictators don’t pay a price for their aggression, they cause more chaos and death and more destruction.  They keep going, and the cost and the threats to America and to the world keep rising,” he said. 

“[I]f we walk away and let Putin erase Ukraine’s independence, would-be aggressors around the world would be emboldened to try the same,” he said. “The risk of conflict and chaos could spread in other parts of the world—in the Indo-Pacific… [and] especially in the Middle East.” 

Biden noted that Russian president Vladimir Putin has suggested he might like to take part of Poland, while one of his top advisors has called three other NATO allies, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, Russia’s “Baltic provinces.” Russian aggression there would draw the U.S. into war. 

Iran is supporting Russia in Ukraine, he noted, and “it’s supporting Hamas and other terrorist groups” in the Middle East. 

“The United States and our partners across the region are working to build a better future for the Middle East, one where the Middle East is more stable, better connected to its neighbors, and—through innovative projects like the India–Middle East–Europe rail corridor that I announced this year at the summit of the world’s biggest economies—more predictable markets, more employment, less rage, less grievances, less war when connected. It…would benefit the people of the Middle East, and it would benefit us.”

Biden explained that he was sending to Congress “an urgent budget request to fund America’s national security needs, to support our critical partners, including Israel and Ukraine. It’s a smart investment that’s going to pay dividends for American security for generations, help us keep American troops out of harm’s way, help us build a world that is safer, more peaceful, and more prosperous for our children and grandchildren,” he said. 

That money, he said, would harden the Iron Dome that protects Israel’s skies after the October 7 attack on Israel by Hamas that took more than 1,300 lives. But he also said that the U.S. “remains committed to the Palestinian people’s right to dignity and to self-determination. The actions of Hamas terrorists don’t take that right away” 

He explained that he had discussed with Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu “the critical need for Israel to operate by the laws of war. That means protecting civilians in combat as best as they can. The people of Gaza urgently need food, water, and medicine.” Biden secured an agreement for such relief when he visited Israel on Wednesday, but so far the route from Egypt has not opened, at least in part because Israel and Egypt can’t agree on a way to inspect the trucks to make sure they are not carrying weapons. 

Ethan Bronner and Henry Meyer of Bloomberg reported yesterday that President Biden, Secretary of State Antony Blinken, and Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin have pressured Israel more deeply than any recent administration, demanding they adjust their planned ground assault on Gaza to minimize civilian casualties and think about what happens when the assault is over. U.S. officials are worried that Israel’s response to the October 7 attack could prompt Hezbollah to join the war, scuttling the administration’s attempt to stabilize the region and drawing the U.S. further into the conflict. 

But Netanyahu’s right-wing coalition partners who have backed further settlements in the West Bank are eager to exact revenge on the Palestinians there, killing at least seven in the last week. U.S. officials told Thomas Friedman of the New York Times that “the representatives of those settlers in the cabinet are withholding tax money owed the Palestinian Authority [that exercises authority over the West Bank], making it harder for it to keep the West Bank as under control as it has been since the start of the Hamas war.” Netanyahu, who has been charged with corruption and fraud, needs those partners in order to remain prime minister and thus stay out of jail.

Meanwhile, the humanitarian crisis in Gaza is worsening as Israel has launched extensive airstrikes, killing what U.N. observers estimate to be more than 2,800 Palestinians, including several relatives of former representative Justin Amash (Libertarian-Michigan) who had been sheltering in a church. It has also driven about a million people of the 2.3 million in Gaza from their homes. Hospitals are closed, and food and water are scarce. 

Foreign policy journalist Laura Rozen of Diplomatic gave Biden credit for his attempt to calm the region, support Israel, and protect Palestinian civilians but was, she said, “very worried” that the conflict would drag out and “inflame & destabilize [the] region & spark blowback & it will be very very ugly.” The U.S. had not been able to get “a single truck of aid into Gaza, much less set up a quasi-safe zone…five days after it thought it had a deal to do so.” It is not helping that X, the social media site formerly known as Twitter, is amplifying disinformation about the crisis. 

The U.S. and governments in Europe have pressured Israel not to go into Gaza while diplomats in Qatar try to secure the release of hostages held by Hamas. Today, Hamas released two dual U.S. citizens who had been held hostage in Gaza. 

In an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, Senators Elizabeth Warren (D-MA) and Roger Marshall (R-KS) took a different tack, noting that Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad (believed to be the group responsible for the hospital explosion in Gaza) received more than $130 million in cryptocurrency in the past two years, and researchers believe this is just a fraction of the total. Cryptocurrency funds crime and terror, they wrote: more than $20 billion in illicit transactions last year “that we know of.”

Those exchanges are currently unregulated, and Warren and Marshall have introduced the bipartisan Digital Asset Anti–Money Laundering Act to bring digital assets under the same rules that regulate traditional payment systems.

Today the administration asked Congress for a little over $105 billion in funding for national security. The package would devote $61.4 billion to support Ukraine (some of it to replenish U.S. stockpiles after sending weapons to Ukraine); $14.3 billion to Israel for air and missile defense systems; $9.15 billion for humanitarian aid to Ukraine, Gaza, and other places; $7.4 billion for initiatives in the Indo-Pacific; and $14 billion for more agents at the southwestern border, new machines to detect fentanyl, and more courts to process asylum cases. 

But Congress is currently unable to act. Seventeen days after the extremists in the House Republican conference ousted then-speaker Kevin McCarthy (R-CA), the Republican civil war continues to paralyze the House. After key Trump ally Representative Jim Jordan (R-OH) lost a second round of balloting on Wednesday, his allies apparently spent Thursday threatening the colleagues who didn’t vote for him. 

Representative Ken Buck (R-CO) explained: “So far I've had four death threats. I've been evicted from my office in Colorado…because the landlord is mad with my voting record on the Speaker issue. And everybody in the conference is getting this…. Family members have been approached and threatened, all kinds of things are going on….”

The threats simply hardened Jordan’s opposition. He lost a third ballot today, with 25 Republicans voting against him, and in a secret ballot the Republicans took privately over whether to keep him as their nominee for speaker, only 86 voted for Jordan, with 112 against. The House recessed for the weekend, despite the mounting crises that need to be addressed.

Having a key lieutenant in the House speaker’s chair, where he could, among other things, smear Biden by pushing to impeach him in the months before the election, would have been a huge boost for Trump. That Republicans refused to get behind Jordan even when he forced them into a public vote and then threatened them, much as Trump threatened them to line up behind him in the past, suggests they are starting to fear Trump less than they have for years.

Three plea deals in the past two days have intensified Trump’s legal troubles. Two of his own lawyers, Sidney Powell and Kenneth Chesebro, have pleaded guilty to some of the charges brought by Fulton County, Georgia, district attorney Fani Willis in the racketeering case against Trump and 17 others.

Yesterday, Powell pleaded guilty to trying to tamper with voting machines. In exchange for a lenient sentence, she will have to testify against others. As she was the person Trump considered tapping as a special counsel to investigate alleged voter fraud, she was at a key meeting with Trump allies Rudy Giuliani, former national security advisor Michael Flynn, and former Overstock chief executive officer Patrick Byrne.

Powell’s unexpected jump to the prosecution side—she was lying about the election just this week—put pressure on others, and today Chesebro also flipped. He was allegedly the one who designed the false electors scheme, although he has pleaded guilty to conspiracy to file false documents. In exchange for a lenient sentence, he has to turn over any evidence he has and testify truthfully against others in the case, including Trump. 

In Michigan, a Republican man charged with participating in the false-elector plot also entered into a cooperation agreement yesterday, meaning he will talk to investigators and, if necessary, testify. 

Finally, today, Judge Arthur Engoron, who is overseeing the fraud case against Trump and the Trump Organization, fined Trump $5,000 for violating the gag order he had imposed on October 3. Trump told Engoron that day he had taken down a social media post disparaging one of Engoron’s law clerks, but it remained up on his campaign website.

Engoron warned Trump that “future violations, whether intentional or unintentional, will subject the violator to far more severe sanctions, which may include, but are not limited to, steeper financial penalties, holding Donald Trump in contempt of court, and possibly imprisoning him pursuant to New York Judiciary Law.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From an American #Heather Cox Richardson #modern times #political cartoons #my favorites #war in Israel #Republican Clown Car #TFG legal troubles

[useless-englandfacts]

Please tell us what happened with Heseltine and the parlimentary mace?

oh it's a great story! for those who might not know - the mace represents the king's authority in parliament and without it parliament can't meet or pass laws - and this tradition goes back to the 13th century.

the heseltine incident happened in 1976 when the labour party were in power but with a laughably small majority (319/635 seats), and a couple of months after their leader/the PM harold wilson resigned. i'll just paste an article from the time here because i think this describes the events better than i ever could:

Against an unprecedented background of fisticuffs, the singing of the Red Flag and a Conservative attempt to run away with the mace, the Government sneaked home to an unprecedented victory of one vote in its battle to overrule an attempt to destroy its nationalisation plans for the shipbuilding industry. Nothing like it has been seen in the Commons chamber for more than 40 years. As soon as the whips announced that a Government majority had been achieved by 304 votes to 303, Labour MPs stood up and began to sing The Red Flag. As they reached the words "We'll keep the red flag flying here," Mr Michael Heseltine, Tory spokesman at the conclusion of the debate, jumped up and seized the mace from its rack beneath the Speaker's Chair. As he waved it aggressively towards the Labour Benches, his Shadow Cabinet colleague Mr James Prior wrested it from his hands and replaced it in its rack the wrong way round. While Mr Prior was changing ends, so to speak, a fracas developed in front of the Tory front bench. Mr Geoffrey Rippon, a former Tory Minister, seemed to be in full physical conflict with Mr Dennis Canavan, Labour MP for Stirlingshire West. Mr Canavan was pulled away by Mr Peter Snape, a Labour Whip. But as the altercation turned into something very like a brawl in the middle of the floor of the Commons, Deputy Speaker, Sir Myer Galpern, rose and declared: "The House is suspended for 20 minutes."

bonus:

Normally such a move would have ended the disturbance. But within a matter of moments, as MPs were moving out of the chamber, yet another outbreak of scuffling took place. Mr Tom Swain, a miners' MP from Derbyshire, was seen to be fighting with a Tory member, Mr Michael Spicer, (Worcestershire South).

it's almost comforting reading this because it makes me feel less alarmed at the sorts of scenes you see in parliament today. but that same thought also makes me feel very depressed. swings and roundabouts.

#asks #politics #history #Admin Dominique

[master-john-uk]

7th July 2022 - Boris Johnson announced his resignation from the post of Prime Minister.

Less than 48 hours earlier Johnson had stated his determination to remain PM after two of his senior Cabinet ministers resigned over his handling of the Chris Pincher affair. One day later a total of 59 Cabinet ministers and aides had resigned.

24 hours is a long time in politics! Mr Johnson was left with no alternative other than to stand down as Prime Minister and leader of the Conservative party. He remained PM until a successor was chosen in September.

Personal note:

I was a big supporter of Mr Johnson, and still believe he did a good job when he became Prime Minister in 2019, on his mandate of "Get Brexit done". Although there are still certain issues which are dragging on... most business concerns were resolved.

Then came the pandemic... something nobody was prepared for. Again, I think his initial response was informed, appropriate and proportionate. I was appointed as an advisor to a committee which made plans for a "worst case scenario" advance of the pandemic, which involved the use of the military to protect food supply chains, and enforce any strict lockdown legislation that might be imposed. Fortunately, none of these extreme measures were needed.

Then came the news that Dominic Cummings, personal advisor to PM Boris, broke rules on Lockdown travel restrictions. One of his ludicrous excuses for making an hour+ drive while he was away from his London home, was to test his eyesight before returning to London. (The IAM, police and medical experts state that you should not drive at all if you have concerns about your vision!) Cummings was forced to resign.

Cummings then set out to discredit Boris Johnson.

Then emerged the "partygate" scandal, when it was revealed that alleged social gatherings took place at 10 Downing Street, in breach of Lockdown rules. While some of these could be classed as "business meetings", in the light of recent evidence some were definitely not.

This makes me extremely angry! When I was involved in looking at plans to introduce martial-law across the UK, and imposed strict rules and bio-security measures at my farm, office and home... Boris was having a party!

And I was not invited!

#Youtube

[wumblr]

idk anything about english politics but i think it's so funny that bojo got abandoned by his ministers. i mean the precise mechanism. like, the lockdown parties weren't enough, the cabinet member sex scandals weren't enough, lying about the sex scandals wasn't really enough, being caught in a lie about the sex scandals wasn't really enough -- but forcing other people to take the fall for being caught in a lie about the cabinet member sex scandals? everyone resigned. if he had just told a more believable lie himself, or maybe even not lied, or not picked cabinet members that are conservative and thus more prone to scandal, he might not be in this pickle. never at any point did it enter the discussion whether conservativism is a capable form of government (it isn't)

[madelineorionswan]

A Royal Queen: The journey of a young Duchess

Chapter 4: Cabinet Classes

Summary: Now officially the queen of her country, Madeline has a whole load of responsibilities. And the first one of those is the official opening of the parliamentary cabinet for the term. But Madeline has barely any experience with politics. So she gets a little helping hand from the prime minister Mr Osmond Richardson.

Warnings: Politics, rakepick being rakepick, alcohol.

A/N: Why am I so excited about this chapter? I don't know I'm just happy 😂okay deal with it. Okay fine, it might just be because of the prime minister's character whom I'm pretty excited to write about, he turned out to be a pretty interesting character to write about. Also, this chapter finally has like 6% less angst, so happier chapters are on the way 😊(recipe for an appetiser included; hope you enjoy it!)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All of the characters in mention (Except the ones from history) are fictional. The relationships mentioned among these characters aren’t real. I respect all of the characters from history mentioned in the story and the story is in no way written with disrespect. I am not an expert on history and politics hence the mentions and portrayal of these two subjects are based on my imagination and are not real.

"MADELINE CLAUDIA ORIONSWAN! GET OUT OF BED THIS VERY INSTANT!"

Madeline woke up with a start. To quickly remove the bed covers, Madeline thrashed about her arms, leading to her getting tangled in the sheets. She let out a yelp before rolling off her bed and falling to the floor, a tangled mess of bed sheets.

After a lot of groaning and trying to find her way out of the sheets. Madeline was finally helped by Rowan and Penny to get out of the bundle of sheets. Madeline let out a sigh. Getting up from the floor, she saw that Rowan and Penny were giggling which soon turned into full-blown laughter.

"It's not funny, you two!" Madeline attempted to maintain an annoyed facial expression, but she eventually joined in the laughter. Suddenly the loud ringing of one of the many clocks in the castle quietened the girls.

Rowan looked at her watch and said, "I think I should be going downstairs, Madame Rakepick would want to discuss some things."

"Don't let her boss you around too much. Honestly, she acts as if she's the only one who knows what to do," Madeline said, putting on her robe over her pyjamas.

"You know, I think you should give her a chance Madeline. She can really be amazing to work with once you know her a little," Rowan said, knowing full well that Madeline always gets annoyed with Rakepick around.

"I'll try, but no promises," Madeline smirked sarcastically.

Rowan let out a sigh, shook her head and walked out of the room. Madeline was then helped by Penny in getting dressed in her usual morning getup before they headed off downstairs, where Penny headed off to the staff's wing and Madeline headed to the breakfast room.

Where to her surprise her parents were having breakfast, chatting away about the latest gossip. Once they heard the doors open they turned their heads and saw Madeline, who already had an annoyed expression on her face.

"Mother, Father. Surprising to see you two here," Madeline stated, her face expressionless as she sat down at her chair at the head of the table.

"Do we need an invitation to visit here?" Henry, Madeline's father stated in a sneering tone.

"Well judging by the fact that now I'm the head of the family and since technically I own this place, Yes. Yes, you need my permission to randomly sit for breakfast at the table." Madeline said. rolling her eyes, and taking a bit of her french omelette.

"Madeline, don't you dare think that just because you're the queen, you can talk back to me like that! I'm your father! Do you understand?!" Her father shouted at her.

Madeline didn't even bother to look at him, she just continued to eat her breakfast.

"ANSWER ME!" Her father yelled again.

"Why father?", Madeline looked up, staring directly at her father, her face not giving away her emotions.

"I thought the sovereign was only answerable to God and God only," With that she stood up defiantly patted her lips with a napkin and left the room, leaving her parents in stupefaction.

Madeline went down the stairs from the breakfast room to the palace's main entrance where she was met by her bodyguard. Opening the door for her, Madeline saw an entourage of cars waiting for her, the first one of which she got into.

Once the door was shut and the cars started to move, Madeline faced Madm rakepick sitting beside her, busy studying a fat binder, full of notes. It felt pretty weird and awkward for her, being used to sitting with Rowan most of the time.

"So..." Madeline let out an awkward sigh and fiddled with her figures, "What's the plan?"

"What plan ma'am?" Rakepick said, not lifting her eyes to eyes to face Madeline.

"Uh... like...what am I supposed to do when I get to the Westermarble Hall? I mean... I do know what I'm supposed to say at the inauguration of parliament and whatnot, but other than that..."

Rakepick looked up at Madeline and studied her face for a minute, before going back to studying her file. She flipped a few pages and looked back up at Madeline.

"Your Majesty, there is no other duty you have there. You would just be listening to the biggest issues in the country currently and the cabinet's opinion on them. The rest is just all glitz and glamour," She said.

"Yes I understand, but shouldn't I be giving my own input?! if it is of major concern then I should have my opinion and understanding of the subject as well," Madeline fought back.

"There is no necessity of that ma'am you're duty is the ceremonial bit and the rest is ours," Rakepick replied cooly.

"Right," Madeline grumbled," Anything else today?"

"Your majesty has a walkabout scheduled directly after this and today evening we have the opening of the parliament ball."

Madeline hummed as she looked outside. She saw hoards of people cheering on the street as they approached no. 67 Clifton Oak Street. As the entourage of cars was parked in front of Westermarble house, her Bodyguards got out of the other cars and stepped out to open the car door for her as Rakepick got out of the other side.

Madeline was careful to shield her chest with her clutch to not let the paps get a scandalous picture of her clothing. The paps immediately stepped forward snapping as many pictures of her as they could as Madeline waved to the people. She plastered a smile and waved one last time at the people, before walking inside.

Inside, a staff member welcomed her by handing her a bouquet and taking her clutch and hat. Madeline smiled and thanked the man before walking into Westermarble Hall where she was welcomed with applause from all present.

Everyone stood up and started singing the national anthem "The Valiant Athena" as Madeline walked up to the podium. She got up the steps of the platform and smiled before all, as the National anthem ended and the audience sat down.

"Mr Prime minister, members of the Lornesse parliament and all of the staff present here, it is an absolute honour, to be invited to address you all on this very momentous occasion," she started, looking up to smile at the audience before continuing.

"I would like to begin by congratulating the entirety of parliament on being able to mark the new session of Parliament in this welcoming manner."

"To the Prime Minister, Mr Osmond Richardson," Madeline looked up and gestured to Mr Richardson with a smile, who too, returned it gladly, "you carry the heavy responsibility of being a leader for the Parliament and I know you will strive to use your judgement wisely, to lead this Parliament and the country with fairness, respect and impartiality."

"Now as we begin this new session, I assure all in the audience as well as all of those of the country, that I place my sincere trust and belief in the prime minister and the other ministers elected thus by. While some will have differences of opinion, I trust you will continue to work together.  Your service here is carried out in the witness of God and I encourage you to draw inspiration from the principles of Justice, Compassion and Integrity.  These words are a reminder of your responsibilities to the people. May God help you all in your service to the country. Thank you."

The audience all roared with applause for the new Queen. Madeline smiled and waved at them, before stepping down and making way for the prime minister to continue with the ceremony. She sat down beside Rakepick in the front row and continued to watch as each minister was given a duty by the prime minister. Finally, the ceremony ended with the Prime minister giving an ending speech.

"Today is a momentous day. As her majesty has briefed before in her outstanding speech, it is the beginning of a new era for this country and its governing. So I ask all to pledge allegiance to the crown, the country and its people in the presence of her Majesty Queen Madeline."

Everyone stood up and raised their arms in allegiance, uttering the words, "In front of God I swear my allegiance to the crown, the country and its people. Till my end, I shall always support and stand by to do good to the country."

Everyone sat down and clapped, as Mr Richardson thanked the audience and got down from the stage.

At the end of the ceremony Madeline got up and she and the prime minister were accompanied to the parliament office where the part for which Madeline was the most nervous yet excited would take place; a discussion on major political issues in the country.

Madeline entered the well-furnished and grandiloquent office along with the other ministers. Mr Richardson being the gentleman he was, pulled out a chair at the head of the table beside his own seat for Madeline. She quietly thanked him and smiled as everyone took their seats.

"Now," Mr Richardson let out a breath," Let's start with the cultural situation in the country, Ms Rye ?"

All the ministers turned to face Ms Rye, who brought out a file and flipped through it for a second, before looking up and meeting Madeline and the Prime Minister, both of whom nodded for her to begin.

While she began with a list of possible coups that could happen in the capital and what reasons there could be, Madeline started to twiddle with her thumbs.

All those fancy terms... half of which she couldn't even spell. She started to zone out, although she smiled and tried to appear attentive throughout the discussions of, economic downgrade, cultural coups, new decrees and the historical discoveries made.

And it started to frustrate her. Not being able to completely understand the impact of many topics or being able to raise objections or question them, when she knew she should be able to do that, as a sovereign who should be involved in the workings of government.

Yet she put up a brave face a tried to keep her attention on the topics.

After an agonisingly long 90 minutes, the meeting ended with some decisions and personal introductions being made. Madeline thanked and bid farewell to Mr Richardson heretofore stepping out of Westermarble Place.

She waved at the crowd, smiling ("probably the only thing I have control of", she thought). She walked down to her car where Rakepick was awaiting her.

"Your Majesty, we shall begin with the walkabout."

"Yes, we shall," Madeline let out a breath, before walking up to the crowds on the pavements.

It was her favourite part, getting to meet the people, getting up close to them and hearing from them. It was like a relief for her. Her face broke into a smile, as she bent to her knees getting up close to the children, and shaking their hands.

"Your majesty," A little girl said, handing a bouquet of white roses to Madeline.

"Thank you, sweety, I must say you look lovely today, could you give me some fashion tips?" Madeline chuckled, winking at the girl with a smile. (Rakepick rolled her at this)

"Really?! Thank you so much! And I love your hat" the girl replied blushing and giggling.

"Thank you," Madeline replied with a smile, ruffling the girl's hair, before moving on to all the others waiting.

She went on to shake many more hands, answer many more questions and receive a truckload of bouquets and cards, all of which she thoroughly enjoyed. So far, it looked like most people were hopeful for her reign, making Madeline feel a little at ease at having the people's trust.

After the walkabout, the driver of Madeline's car drove around to the end of the street, from where she was to step into the car. Just before she stepped in, she smiled and waved at the people, sat in the car and was driven back to the palace, where the preparation for the traditional "Opening of Parliament" Ball was in full swing.

"Now your Majesty, it is show time for you," Rakepick said, making Madeline smirk to herself. She might not be the best at politics, but she knew she was damn good at throwing a party to woo anyone. That was her level of politics.

"Let's bring our game on, then."

---

6:00 pm, the clock in her room read.

Only an hour left for everyone from parliament to arrive. Madeline was starting to feel a little jittery, although she knew, that one sparkly tiara with a flourish of history, added to a fancy gown was enough to get everyone talking to her.

She got up from the edge of her bed and grabbed the bottle of scotch whiskey kept on the tray on her bedside table. She poured herself a glass and stood beside the 8 feet long window of her bedroom watching the palace being lit up, as the darkness started to settle in.

Perhaps it should be mentioned here, that this was Madeline's first official ball as queen. There were new stakes and new expectations.

Madeline downed the glass in one go and stared at the soft yellow glow of the city and palace lights, melding into one. She drew the curtains back with a calm smile and run a bell.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get out of bed," Penny said, pursing her lips," Common' now, we don't have much time. And we've got to dress to impress!"

"Well you're the expert, so take it away," Madeline said, with a raise of her brow and a smile.

Penny didn't waste any time and started sifting through the racks of clothes in the closet. A few minutes went by before Penny gasped and carefully pulled out a blue A-line dress. It had uneven lines of different shades of blue and white and purple. Madeline couldn't help but run her hands gently through the layers.

"You know Pen, you're an absolute dress-brainiac! How do you find these things in my closet?!" Madeline asked, incredulously.

Penny just shrugged with a smile, going back to searching for something in the jewellery box. She then brought out a dainty, silver bracelet On closer look Madeline noticed there were tiny aquamarines fixed in it.

Penny helped Madeline out of her pyjamas and helped her shimmy into the dress. Once it was, Madeline felt that no one was going to be able to not turn their heads as she walked in. And technically, that was the aim, to amaze everyone and appear confident. She was 90% there...probably.

"Right, now the gloves," Penny rolled up the silk opera gloves.

"Ugh, can't we just go without them, probably will end up staining them," Madeline groaned. But when she got a death stare from Penny, she kept quiet and put on the gloves.

Penny deftly clasped the silver bracelet and brought out a pair of white slingback pumps, which Madeline put on. Penny then brought a glass box having a diamond and aquamarine tiara.

"I saw the Hesse Aquamarine Tiara and thought it would go well. What do you think?" Penny asked, as she took the tiara out and hovered it over Madeline's head.

"Isn't that the.." Madeline paused and said, "Yeah, it looks great," What she had been about to say was that the Hesse tiara had been a piece of jewellery under the sovereign's ownership. But she remembered that she was the sovereign.

Penny styled her hair in the previously fashionable beehive bun. She then fastened the Hesse Aquamarine tiara on her hair with pins. Finally, with a light dusting of powder, mascara and a little black shadow, Penny had worked her magic and Madeline looked fit to be queen.

She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She turned and thanked Penny who helped her out into the hallway. Madeline walked to the Eallesborough Castle entrance, where she heard and saw multiple cars driving up the driveway.

But the real shocker was when she saw Rakepick decked out in a satin Midnight blue gown, a simple silver chocker and a family heirloom brooch. She looked rather dazzling but quite different from her usual, straight-cut blazers and shirts.

"Don't you look rather lovely Marchioness!" Madeline said with a smirk when Rakepick curtsied to her. She nodded her head curtly and stood beside Rakepick to greet the guests who were arriving.

"Thank you for the compliment, Ma'am. You look positively radiant as usual," Rakepick said a slight smile on her face.

"Thank you, coming from you that means a lot," Madeline smiled.

She turned to face the castle entrance, where a black car stopped. As a guard opened the door, the prime minister stepped out of the car, along with a woman, possibly his wife. The prime minister was dressed up in a black tux while the woman, was dressed in a glittery grassy green gown.

They both stepped forward to Madeline bowing and dropping to a curtsy respectively. Madeline smiled and shook hands with both of them.

"I'm so glad you both were able to make it,"

"Your majesty, the pleasure was all ours," the woman replied, beaming.

"You must be Mrs Richardson," Madeline said.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Mrs Hazel Richardson. An absolute pleasure to meet you, your Majesty," she said with a laugh.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Richardson. Hope you have a lovely evening, both of you," Madeline chuckled and moved on to greet the next guests.

Over the next few minutes, Madeline met all of the ministers, all of whom were... interesting characters, to say the least. After greeting them, Madeline and the last of the ministers walked in with the other guests.

In the ballroom of the castle, people were abuzz. Glasses of champagne were passed alongside rich and decadent appetizers. Madeline, who had wanted to talk with some of the ministers, particularly to the Prime Minister, was swept away in fancy noble-talk by the other nobles or members who were nobles, possibly trying to get favours from her.

Thankfully, Penny, who was always able to amuse everyone with the latest gossip story, was able to distract the nobles, so that Madeline could slip away from the conversation.

While wandering around the ballroom and making sure everyone was enjoying themselves, Madeline came across Mr Richardson, sitting alone towards the corner, fiddling with a glass of champagne. She picked up a piece of salmon mousse canape ate it, dusted her fingers and approached him.

"You look rather lonely Prime minister," Madeline remarked. Her sudden appearance caught Mr Richardson off-guard, making him almost drop his glass, but he was quickly able to steady himself.

Madeline chuckled to herself and sat down on the chair beside him, asking, "Where's the Mrs?"

"Probably dancing and chatting her night away," He said with a chuckle, "Hazel was always the more sociable one of us, always itching to get an invite to a party!"

"But I must say, Your Majesty, you looked very much in your element while you talked with the guests and danced with them, unlike you did today morning," Mr Richardson said with a knowing smile.

Madeline tensed, but continued to smile and replied, "Well, I did grow up hosting and attending balls my entire life, you'd be surprised at how uninteresting my life had been previously. Compared to that, it's quite different to sit and listen to some grey men about politics."

"Different and unfamiliar, I'm supposing," Mr Richardson gave Madeline a knowing look.

"I-I mean- "

"Forgive me, for being frank, but you looked very nervous and out of place as if you did not know of any of the conversations going on," He said with a frown.

"Out of place is a bit too strong, but I have to admit, it did feel unfamiliar," Madeline admitted with a sigh.

"I'm guessing it was because you actually had no idea about most of the political discussions," Mr Richardson said.

"Possible cultural coups and the drop in the value of the currency I get, but the rest is... questionable," Madeline said, with hesitance, "I'm so sorry that I made you feel awkward, I- I'm the queen and I should know more about this and I feel so inadequate about this role and this is just unacceptable."

"Oh no ma'am it's quite alright," Madeline stopped her ramble and looked at Mr Richardson, with an incredulous look, "What?"

"Ma'am, at your age, when I first joined the world of politics, I had no damn idea what I was getting myself into," he said with a laugh, "honestly it was quite the bit of a rollercoaster."

"But you taking this huge responsibility as head of state without any guidance and support is extraordinary," Mr Richardson said.

"Thank you, I'm honoured. But I believe going on like this wouldn't be the best course of action, would it?" Madeline said with a smile.

"No, it wouldn't," he said, "but if you please, perhaps I could give a bit of an introduction to some of the topics discussed today."

"That would be brilliant," Madeline smiled, "Shall we begin with the economic situation of the country?"

"We shall, your majesty," Mr Richardson said with a smile.

The two heads of state discussed the cabinet meeting session well into the night. Madeline had to admit that the prolonged conversation made her know the Prime Minister better. It also helped that he was quite a good teacher and had a good sense of humour, good enough to not drag the conversation to boredom.

Madeline had been so absorbed in the discussion, that she hadn't noticed Mr Richardson's wife walking up to them, clearly exhausted and ready to go home and drop dead on her bed.

"Darling, I think her majesty will appreciate it if we leave soon. It's been a long night," She said, putting her elbow on Mr Richardson's shoulders, making him chuckle.

"Yes, it has. And would you look at the time! I should bid everyone goodnight soon," Madeline exclaimed and quickly got up when he saw the time.

"Then we won't keep you from your duties," Mr Richardson said, also rising from his seat. "Thank you for the lovely evening, ma'am," He said with a smile.

"Thank you for being here," Madeline leaned and a little closer and said, "And thank you for the lesson. It was much needed."

"Anytime ma'am, I'll see you this Monday for our meeting then," He said with a smile and walked away with his wife.

Madeline smiled to herself and decided to take one last round around the room. She walked around, occasionally looking around for Rakepick, Rowan, or Penny so she could spend the last few minutes with them. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around to see a man with bright ginger hair in a dark blue suit smiling at her. It took her a minute to realise that it was Bill Weasley. Madeline smiled and shook his hand before pulling him into a hug.

"Uh, don't you think this a little inappropriate?" Bill said with a chuckle.

"Oh please, everyone's way too busy to notice. Besides, I'm glad to see you again Bill," Madeline said with a smile.

"I'm at your service, your Majesty," Bill said dramatically, making Madeline and Bill laugh.

"Well, we could grab a whiskey and have a chat if you want?" Bill asked.

"That sounds great, actually. It's been a pretty long night for me," Madeline said.

They both walked over to the drink counter and got a glass of whiskey before walking off to one of the more secluded corners.

"So, did you like the party?" Madeline asked, sipping on her glass.

"It was quite impressive, I must say..." Bill swirled the glass in his hand before taking a sip of the golden-brown, silky liquid.

"But?"

"How did you know there was a but?"

Madeline shrugged. "Instincts, I suppose. So, what is the "But" about?" she asked.

"I'm not really a fancy party person, though," Bill said a little nervously.

"Finally, someone who has a similar mentality to mine," Madeline said with laughter, feeling like she could loosen up a little.

"Well, that was a relief then," Bill chuckled with a sigh of relief, "But other than that, I do have something a bit more important and... controversial to talk about."

"Go right ahead," Madeline said, the alcohol starting to slowly kick in.

"Uhm, it might be weird to say this, especially as someone who's working in the parliament but...," Bill hesitated for a moment, looking around to make sure that no one was looking at them before lowering his voice and continuing, "to be frank, I would wise, if you wouldn't put your trust in everyone here."

Madeline frowned and straightened up, putting aside her glass, "meaning..."

"Meaning that there's more to this institution than meets the eye. I've met these people Madeline and all of them have some secrets that are buried deep in their history."

"Thanks for letting me know Bill," Madeline said but a frown was still etched on her face.

---

Once the Ball was over, everyone started to head home. Madeline bid goodbye to Bill and asked him to come to visit her again, to which he agreed, although a little hesitantly at first. And one by one everyone in the palace household started to retire to their rooms.

Penny helped Madeline change into her night garments before she too headed for her room. Taking a sip of water, Madeline sat down on her bed and thought to herself.

If it was a question of trust, was anyone here worthy of anyone's trust?

And more than that, what secrets were being hidden? Which one's would be unearthed?

#madeline orionswan #hogwarts mystery #harry potter #hphm mc #fanfiction #royalty au #charlie weasley x oc #hp fanfic #alternate au #au #charlie weasley

[laura-elizabeth91]

Philip May's face was almost as inscrutable as his wife's as he watched Britain's Government suffer the biggest parliamentary defeat in history from the public gallery.

By avoiding eye contact throughout the exchange in the House of Commons, which saw Theresa May's Withdrawal Agreement beaten by an unprecedented 230-vote majority, many assumed the Prime Minister might have broken down had she exchanged glances with the man she calls her "rock".

In fact, as a Downing Street insider later revealed, quite the opposite was true. Inadvertently giving a telling insight into her 38-year marriage, the source said the real reason she couldn't bear to look up at Philip was not because he would spark tears - that's not the way they operate. It was more a case that he'd give her that "look" and she'd start a fit of nervous laughter.

While she shies away from discussing her private life, Mrs May has always been candid in discussing her relationship with the man she met at a Conservative dinner dance when they were at Oxford.

Speaking about the death of her parents, she told BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs that she had "huge support in my husband and that was very important for me". She added: "He was a real rock for me - he has been all the time we've been married, but particularly then, of course, being faced with the loss of both parents within a relatively short space of time."

Yet with reports that the mild-mannered financier has caused a rift at Number 10 by thwarting the idea of winning Labour support for a customs union, just how much power does Philip May actually wield?

Although Downing Street has dismissed as "utter bunkum" claims that Mr May's actions have sparked a row with Gavin Barwell, Mrs May's chief of staff, the rumours do raise intriguing questions about who really wears the trousers in Downing Street.

Of course, this is nothing new. One Cabinet minister once pointed to Samantha Cameron, saying she was the driving force behind many policy decisions. Known for her socially liberal views, ministers joked that Samantha was such a strong influence on her husband David that she "will have a more liberalising impact on Cameron than Nick Clegg". According to Tim Montgomerie, the political columnist, Samantha also had a "huge influence" on the decision to soften the Government's hard-line approach on the Syrian refugee crisis.

And one can't imagine Cherie Blair ever holding back in Tony's self-styled "kitchen cabinet" meetings. Denis Thatcher famously said the role of a political consort should be "always present, never there" and, according to insiders - that's precisely how Philip, 61, plays it.

One former aide described his "ninja like" ability to be ever present without anyone taking "the blindest bit of notice". "Philip wields power, but only when the PM wants him to. He's always there but never in your face. I've never once seen him angry.

"He's cool, he's calm, he's clear - he never waffles. Everything he comes out with is useful and worth listening to. I remember at conference once he was running around making everyone tea. As a consequence, he hears everything that's going on. That way, when everyone has left the room, the PM can turn to him and say: 'Well, what do you think?'"

Although he has worked as a relationship manager for the financial group Capital International for more than a decade, Philip has become an ever more visible presence at Number 10. When his wife took office, his employer issued a statement insisting: "He is not involved with, and doesn't manage, money, and is not a portfolio manager. His job is to ensure the clients are happy with the service and that we understand their goals."

Indeed, workers based near his London Belgravia office had grown used to the sight of the Prime Minister's husband popping into the local Pret a Manger for a sandwich. But not as much since the last general election - a political move, incidentally, that Philip was vehemently opposed to.

According to one impeccably placed source: "In the early days, when Theresa May had Nick and Fi [her former joint chiefs of staff, Nick Timothy and Fiona Hill], you hardly saw Philip. He wasn't really needed. But since the snap election he's been on the scene a lot more, especially since Nick and Fi left. He goes on foreign trips now because she doesn't want to do them without him. It's ironic really because he was fiercely opposed to the idea of having another election. He literally said to Theresa: 'We've only just got here, we've only just unpacked the furniture, why are you doing this?'."

Having served as chairman of the local Conservative Party Association in Wimbledon, it was Philip who was tipped to go into politics. He took a step back when Mrs May, 62, was elected as the MP for Maidenhead in 1997, but has remained committed to the Tory cause.

Hence that rumoured Number 10 intervention last week. By reportedly siding with party chairman Brandon Lewis and Chief Whip Julian Smith in encouraging his wife to reach out to the Brexiteers in her own party - rather than the Opposition - the alleged ruckus serves as a reminder that Philip's allegiances lie to the party as much as the woman running the country.

As one source put it: "Philip would have been as capable a politician as Theresa. You could swap them out and he'd be just fine. He's very knowledgeable and committed to the party. He would disappear for a few hours during the election campaign, and when you'd ask him where he'd been he'd say: 'Just out canvassing'."

While it has long been said that Theresa May "doesn't have any friends" inside or outside politics, in fact the couple enjoy what one insider described as a "typically Tory social circle".

"They will meet other couples for dinner. They are quite close to Simon Dudley, the leader of the council in Windsor and Maidenhead, and his wife. It's all very old-school, blue-blooded Tory. You know, the sort of people who buy NZ$950 of raffle tickets and run supper clubs and enjoy cream teas. For them, the Conservative Party is their life. And they wouldn't have it any other way. They love going out and meeting people together."

Theresa also enjoys cooking for her husband - a small semblance of normality in her somewhat surreal world. As one aide revealed: "I remember the PM once delaying an important conference call because she had forgotten to make Philip his lunch. It was really rather touching, seeing how dedicated she is to him, even with everything else on her plate."

Another insider described how the "homely, cosy" decor at the Mays' home in Sonning provided an insight into their private suburban world, where they enjoy gardening, watching quiz shows like The Chase and Eggheads and listening to Test Match Special on BBC Radio 4.

Former grammar schoolboy Philip, who was brought up in Liverpool, also enjoys supporting the Reds - leading to another intriguing anecdote about the couple. Recalling a lunch she had arranged with the Prime Minister and her husband, the hostess went to great lengths to ensure Philip was sitting next to a Liverpool fan, revealing: "I told the guests, if you want the PM to enjoy the lunch, keep Philip happy. If Philip's happy, then the PM's happy - it really is as simple as that."

The Telegraph, London

from 2019

#from the archives

[jess-the-reckless]

So this is free today and for the next five days, just in case anyone wanted a distraction from the huge exploding sideshow going on...you know. Over there. It's a light little Westminster romance set in an alternate universe where there's such a thing as an MP you might actually want to have sex with, and our journalist hero Toby does. Very much. Ends up on his knees in a shadow cabinet office before the end of about chapter two, I think, where he ends up with a bad case of rugburn and a serious entanglement with MP Derek Waterhouse. Derek was the result of me trying to figure out what an alpha male power bottom would look like, and that's pretty much the whole energy he brings to the table, along with a taste for light BDSM helpfully supplied by a versatile Welsh dominatrix named Cerys. Gets a bit sticky for a moment when it turns out that Toby and Cerys are also best friends, but Westminster is kind of incestuous like that - one day you're drinking mojitos and discussing buttplugs with your bestie, and the next you find out that the guy who gave you rugburn last week is on her client list.

I like this book, although I hate how the politics of it all turned out to be prophetic. Who would have imagined that, in the wake of Brexit, the Tories would go full laissez faire and start systematically setting fire to every regulation put in place to keep the elderly safe, the sick treated, and small children out of chimneys?

I also remember having a couple of anxiety attacks over whether the pizza delivery situation (TW: pineapple) at the party conference part of the book could ever happen, because surely party conference security couldn't be so shit that it would allow that to happen?

That time I was wrong. Security was that shit, as evidenced in the same week when a comedian marched up and personally handed then prime minister Theresa May a P45 (a tax document you receive when laid off/resigning/defenestrated with great prejudice from a job).

Think I also got in a couple of digs at the grotesque narcissist who followed May into Number 10, but the less said about him the better. This book now looks rather quaint in retrospect, written as it was in the recent wake of Brexit. I think a lot of us knew that things were going to become insane, but nobody could have predicted how insane. Nobody, for example, could have predicted that one day we'd find ourselves breathlessly watching a political cage match between two titanic heavyweights playing out hour after hour on social media. One was a rotting head of shop soiled vegetable matter with a lower level of neural complexity than that of the soil in which it was grown, and the other was literally a lettuce.

#writing #uk politics #romancenovel #lgbt fiction #free #lettuce