Narrative: "The French have arrived...."

The Arrival of Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant

As recorded by various eyewitnesses in Port Dominion, and from the man himself, who would insist that the record be written in proper French if it were to be read by “people of taste.”

It was an afternoon most warm and humid when Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant at last descended from the gangplank of the French ship, La Vérité du Roi, his powdered wig pristine despite the Caribbean air, his complexion paler than porcelain, and his expression one of mingled horror and heroic endurance.

“Mon Dieu,” he murmured, holding his perfumed handkerchief delicately before his face as though the very breeze were an affront. “Ze heat… it is barbaric. And ze smell! It is… how you say— insupportable!”

Every movement of Monsieur LeCroissant was a performance. His bright yellow coat, lavishly trimmed in rose-pink, gleamed like butter in the sun; his turquoise waistcoat shimmered beneath it, every button gleaming with unnecessary but glorious perfection. His stockings were white as cloud, his shoes polished to a mirror’s shine, and from his tricorn hat sprouted an effulgent white plume that fluttered tragically with every sigh of dismay.

He stepped upon the dock as though each board might crack beneath the weight of his disapproval. “Zis place…” he said to no one in particular, his eyes darting over the rough-hewn buildings and the sweating dockhands hauling barrels of rum and salt cod. “Zis… Port Dominion… it offends ze eye. It offends ze soul. It offends… my nose!”

He sniffed the air, shuddered, and quickly pressed his handkerchief to his face again. “Ah, merci, my little savior,” he whispered tenderly to the square of scented silk. “You alone understand me.”

Several onlookers—dockhands, soldiers, and market women—paused in their tasks to stare at this brilliant, glowing apparition of continental absurdity. LeCroissant, perceiving their attention, mistook it (naturally) for admiration. He gave a faint, practiced smile of benevolent superiority.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured softly to himself. “Zey stare… for who among zem ‘as ever seen civilization before?”

He made a delicate gesture toward his trunk, which was large enough to house a small family. “Handle wiz care, imbéciles! Zere are garments within worth more zan your entire island! Et pas de touching avec ze hands!”

He turned then toward the town itself, surveying it with narrowed eyes. “And zis,” he said softly, “zis is where zey say ze Contessa ‘as taken residence. Mon Dieu… zat woman—beautiful, yes, but too beautiful, too knowing. I tell you, she smiles and ze saints cover zeir eyes. Une sorcière, une diablesse!”

He shivered slightly, not entirely from fear. “And I…” he murmured, adjusting his lace cuffs with exquisite care, “I am but a poor man of delicate taste, too refined, too pure for zis island of English buffoons.”

He paused dramatically, tilting his chin toward the horizon. “Still… one must endure greatness, n’est-ce pas? For where LeCroissant walks, civilization follows.”

And with that, he lifted his chin, straightened his plume, and strode toward Dominion Square, each step a minuet upon the rough boards, every roll of his eyes a declaration of cultural supremacy.