#pierre etienne du ponceau

[yr-obedt-cicero]

Platonic communal sleeping in the American colonies

Platonic bed-sharing was actually quite common custom in the colonies, especially during time's of need, after all, space and privacy were a luxury of the wealthy. It didn't necessarily have to be intimate either, it was not uncommon for sometimes even complete strangers - often travelers or soldiers - of the same sex to share a bed together at an Inn if there was little space, and needed room. Samuel Pepys, an 18th century diarist, often slept with male friends and wrote about the conversations they would have at night. [x]

Rotundo also explains that; “It is not too much to suggest that in an era before central heating, the body warmth of an already beloved bedmate may have been so welcome as to be a source of emotional as well as physical pleasure.” And implies that while it was most of the time done out of necessity, it was also oftentimes simply a warming act of affection, romantic or platonic; “This was, after all, a culture that fervently contrasted the secure and cozy warmth of home with the coldness of a cruel and heartless world outside… A bed, when shared with a special person, could become a nest of intimacy, a place of casual touch and confidential talk.” [x]

Additionally, during the days before central heating was truly a common thing (Especially if you weren't royal or wealthy), bedmates were also seen as warmth. Oftentimes servants even slept alongside their mistresses. This was also how many sicknesses would spread, as bedbugs and lice were transported from person to person in the colonial period usually when sharing bunks or close quarters.

Even notable figures took part in this custom, like Robert Troup and Alexander Hamilton, as Chernow writes how the two shared beds while studying law together at King's College; “At King's, Troup wrote, ‘...they occupied the same room and slept in the same bed’” [x]

Which also leads to a humourous story about when John Adams slept with Benjamin Franklin in a New Jersey tavern during the fall of 1776. Just ten days prior, Washington and his men had barely escaped capture on Long Island after a suffering defeat to the British. The Continental Congress had debated for days about what was to be done. The British had captured General John Sullivan during the Battle, Earl Howe and his brother William Howe paroled Sullivan so he could take a message to Congress, as they wanted a talk peace. Eventually, Sullivan went to Philadelphia and spoke to Congress about the peace talks, to which the Congress decided that they would send a three-man committee to Staten Island. Which was composed of; Benjamin Franklin, Edward Rutledge, and Adams. The men represented the northern, middle and southern colonies. The three had set out on September 9th, Franklin and Rutledge each in a two-wheeled chaise, Adams on horseback. Later, the three men arrived in New Brunswick, and unfortunately had found the Inns all too crowded. Which led to Franklin and Adams having to share a tiny room, barely bigger than the bed, without a chimney, in the Indian Queen Tavern. Which then began an interesting debate, as they prepared to retire;

The window was open, and I, who was an invalid and afraid of the air in the night, shut it close. “Oh!” says Franklin, “don't shut the window, we shall be suffocated.” I answered, I was afraid of the evening air. Dr. Franklin replied, “The air within this chamber will soon be, and indeed is now, worse than that without doors. Come, open the window and come to bed, and I will convince you. I believe you are not acquainted with my theory of colds.” Opening the window, and leaping into bed, I said I had read his letters to Dr. Cooper, in which he had advanced, that nobody ever got cold by going into a cold church or any other cold air, but the theory was so little consistent with my experience, that I thought it a paradox. However, I had so much curiosity to hear his reasons that I would run the risk of a cold. The Doctor then began a harangue upon air and cold, and respiration and perspiration, with which I was so much amused that I soon fell asleep, and left him and his philosophy together, but I believe they were equally sound and insensible within a few minutes after me, for the last words I heard were pronounced as if he was more than half asleep. I remember little of the lecture...

Source — The Works of John Adams, Volume 3, by John Adams

Especially during time of war, when the revolution was rough, and means were low. Or as some day; “These are the times that try men's souls”. If the army was running low on space, or even beds, many - if not most - men resorted to sharing the same bed. Although this particular custom was not as accepted by many European visitors who came to the colonies, this cultural difference was often completely condemned by them. Pierre Du Ponceau - an aide of Baron von Steuben's - wrote of a particular dispute between a Virginian and a Frenchman about the subject in his autobiography;

One evening at an Inn in Virginia, a Frenchman and a Virginian were discussing about the manners of their respective countries. The American exclaimed violently against the horrid custom of the French of kissing one another at meeting and parting. The Frenchman made no answer, but as it was late, he took his candle and went up to bed. He was soon followed by the Virginian who after undressing came to take his place in the same bed with his companion “Stop, Sir,” said the Frenchman, “that won't do—I shall kiss you as much as you please, but by Jupiter, I'll not sleep with you.”

Source — Autobiographical Letters Of Peter S. Duponceau

It seems like this custom was almost exclusively English/Colonial, as David Montagu Erskine wrote to his father in 1799 of the living arrangements he and his companions encountered among the transient inhabitants of Washington, DC;

Each of us have a bed room to ourselves, if we chuse, but people in this country seem to think so lightly of such an indispensable comfort as I consider it, that I believe there are but three of us, who have rooms to ourselves.

Source — Menk, Patricia Holbert. “D. M. Erskine: Letters from America, 1798-1799.” The William and Mary Quarterly, Volume 6.

Edward Thornton, secretary to the new British minister to the United States, wrote to his former employer in 1792;

Mr. Hammond's rank may possibly secure him from some of the inconveniences, which others, rendered fastidious by the style of travelling in England, are loud in their complaints of, such as [...] fellow lodgers in the same room and not infrequently in the same bed.

Source — Jackman, S. W. “A Young Englishman Reports on the New Nation: Edward Thornton to James Bland Burges, 1791-1793.” The William and Mary Quarterly, Volume 18

This custom was even common after the revolution and the war of 1812—As Lieutenant John Le Couteur, a British army officer from the Isle of Jersey, traveled through New York in 1816 accompanied by Captain George Thew Burke. Le Couteur and Burke arrived at an Inn one day after dinner had been served and cleared, and they were hard-pressed to convince the hostess to bring out more food, “But this was not the last grievance.” Le Couteur recorded in his diary and concluded;

There was only one spare bed, a small one, which of course I insisted Burke should take. The Yankee Landlord wished me to take half of it as a matter of course but I said: “we Britishers were particular on that pint.’ “Then,” said mine host, “I guess if you don’t chuse to take half a bed with some one, you’ll jist sleep in a cheer [chair] or by the kitchen fire’

Source — Male-Male Intimacy in Early America: Beyond Romantic Friendships, by William E Benemann

[screechingsandwichhologram]

everyone should talk about peter stephen du ponceau more. for my benefit. my two current interests (linguistics & american revolution) together. please

[marsfingershurt]

"Steuben grew impatient and flew into a violent passion. After exhausting all his store of German oaths he called in that language to his servant to bring his pistols, which he did. Then the Baron, presenting the deadly weapons at the affrighted land-lord...."

ERM. STEUBEN?? NO???

i love Du Ponceau's autobiography lmao

[littlewritingrabbit]

hey, is du ponceau peter or pierre? i've seen it both ways and i'm a little confused as to what it was

Good question anon! He was called Pierre Etienne up until he became a US citizen on July 25th, 1781, when he switched to Peter Stephen, which I think it pretty much just an anglicized version of his birth name. Most of his publications that I’ve heard of are under the name Peter Stephen du Ponceau, so I’d guess that’s what he was called by everyone after he moved to the US for good.

[salmonberrypj]

New Saratoga

Sing, oh Muse, of a teenage fool,

Quills, cogwheels, head-quartered in her head,

Sing of books, of History,

The stories stacked beneath her bed,

Coat blue-coated turncoats’ tales

In words to waste the midnight hour,

Decipher flint-locked diplomacy

In essays etched that eyes devour,

Count out the cost of camaraderie

In amphibious alliances,

But don’t mistake her quietness

For less than duels in silences,

For she writes with sensibility,

Not espionage from Valley Forge,

But epicene epistolary,

To fright the ears of Mad King George,

Barbed bayonets, and Aides-de-Camp,

Still military family,

This Continental sentiment,

She imitates so admirably,

Under inspection general,

First sight seemed insignificant,

“Rebellion,” new Saratoga - 

The watch-word of the discontent.*

- P.J.

*This last phrase is from a quote by Pierre Etienne du Ponceau.

[my--little-lion]

Prompt: soft boys in Von Steuben’s cabin drunk and sleepy joke next to a warm fire on a cold night

does this count? I hope this counts, it hit all the points just not very well.

It was a painfully cold winters night, the wind shook the buildings and rattled through roofs, making eerie noises. There was snow two feet deep and still falling.

And Pierre was outside.

He had one more letter to deliver and then he could return to the warm home of his Baron, but he had to deliver this letter first, it was desperate.

His feet were numb from the snow getting into his boots, and his face felt so cold he wished it would just numb already, but the light to headquarters was ahead and then he was done.

He forced himself on, one foot in front of the other, don’t roll your ankle because you can’t feel it, puff cold air into your gloved hands to warm up your nose then give up and rub the woollen articles on your nose, your baron loves kissing your nose, it wouldn't be nice to lose it now would it.

He knocked on the door, too lightly to be heard, then harder, the door opened to Hamilton, whose eyes widened when he took in Pierre’s features.

“A letter for the general,” Pierre said in French, Hamilton nodded and took the letter.

“Come inside now! It’s too cold!” Pierre shook his head.

“I wish to return to the Baron now, thank you.”

Hamilton’s brow was still creased in concern but he nodded, closing the door with a wave.

Pierre smiled and started the trek to his home, wishing momentarily he had asked for a lantern.

The building that was claimed by the Baron was down a hill, then through the cabins made by the soldiers, Pierre pitied them desperately, at least he was to return to a fire, they were trapped in rickety hand-built cabins that creaked and let in snow.

The light from the cabins did help, as Pierre found his night vision was pitiful and he really did not wish to fall over in the snow.

The large building he called home came over the horizon, his hands had gotten wet along the way and they had gone numb, his nose was bared to the elements without the additional guarding, and his face was burning trying to keep himself warm, but he was close.

He failed one of his basic steps, don’t twist your ankle because you can’t feel your feet, and fell headfirst into a snowbank, the icy water seeped into his clothes, soaking his top layers and freezing him down to his core, he stood and tried not to cry from the pain as he continued walking.

He could hear Benjamin and William when he twisted the door handle, his numb fingers making the task unfairly difficult, but he pushed it open, almost falling straight into the floor before he was caught by the baron.

He was placed in front of a fire, Benjamin had rushed to grab him dry clothes as his baron kissed tears off his cheeks and warmed up his feet and hands.

William offered him a flask, and he drank, not realising how dry his mouth felt.

He was stripped and dressed, he could barely feel anything but the warm hands of his baron, he felt floaty.

He closed his eyes, ready to sleep peacefully against his Baron’s chest, he felt a rumbling chuckle and smiled, curling a small hand in his Baron’s shirt.

The fire was hot and he felt much better, and sleepier.

A blanket was placed around his shoulders and a soft voice started speaking to him.

“Hey Pierre, are you okay? Can you speak?” William asked gently, holding Pierre’s cheek in a warm hand.

“’m okay,” Pierre mumbled, opening his eyes barely.

“What’s your name?” William asked, not letting Pierre go to sleep again, rude.

“Pierre-Etienne Du Ponceau, isn’t this for like, if you’re havin’ a stroke?”

“I think so, but you seem very out of it we can’t have out little buddy get hurt now can we, where are you?”

“Home.”

“Who’s the king?”

“We don’t have one, this is America.”

“Okay, you’re fine.”

“What would you have done if he said King George?” Benjamin asked.

“Declared that he’s a changeling and went hunting for the real Pierre.”

“What if he said Louis XVI?”

“He’d be fine just a little confused.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?” Pierre mumbled.

“Yes, you’re fine,” William said, stroking Pierre's hair softly.

The last thing Pierre remembered was a comforting chuckle and a kiss pressed into his lips.

[saint-olga]

The Baron watched over me with a father's care. He well knew the dangers to which an inexperienced young man was exposed in this land of liberty, and took pains to guard me against them. "If," said he once to me, not long after our arrival in this country "if you write in the news-papers or get married I will renounce you." This fatherly advice made a strong impression on my mind, and was a salutary check to me on more than one occasion.

The Autobiography of Peter Stephen Du Ponceau

[dominavulpis]

Muses that have been marked with a * are secondary. Muses that have been marked with a ** are ones that I have strong muse for.

Historical Muses

Alexander Hamilton John Laurens Patsy "Martha" Parke Custis ** Pierre Etienne Du Ponceau ** Maria Reynolds Susan Reynolds Sally Hemings (modern) George Washington * Anastasia Romanov John "Jacky" Parke Custis Eleanor "Nelly" Parke Custis Lewis William North Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler Van Rensselaer * Betty Washington Lewis Nathan Hale John W. Mulligan, Jr  Angelica Hamilton

Other Muses

Claudia, Interview with a Vampire by Anne Rice Armand, The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice Jim Moriarty, BBC series as well as the works of Arthur Conan Doyle Sebastian Moran, the works of Arthur Conan Doyle Remus Lupin, Harry Potter

[candycloth]

Ecole Française du XVIIIème siècle : PORTRAIT DE MARIE-GENEVIEVE LE TONNELLIER DE BRETEUIL. Huile sur toile, rentoilée, 190 x 111 cm. Annoté : « Marie Geneviève Le Tonnellier de Breteuil, marquise de Chriffreville, Dame de Moncé le Ponceau La Ferriere Champmarin etc 1733 » Marie-Geneviève Le Tonnelier de Breteuil, née le 24 juin 1708. De Pierre Etienne Le Tonnelier de Breteuil et de Gabrielle Legras d’Azy. Epouse de François Louis Gaulther, marquis de Chiffreville.

[yr-obedt-cicero]

“The party stopped for a meal at one such inn in the village of Manheim. Nailed to a wall inside the tavern was a “paltry engraving… on which was represented a Prussian knocking down a Frenchman in great style,” accompanied by the inscription “A Frenchman to a Prussian is no more than a mosquito.” Steuben noticed it and “enjoyed it exceedingly”; he grabbed [Peter Stephen] Duponceau and pointed it out excitedly to the teenage secretary, flashing him a sly and knowing smile.”

— The Drillmaster of Valley Forge: The Baron de Steuben and the Making of the American Army, by Paul D. Lockhart

[yr-obedt-cicero]

“The dog was fond of music; when on board the ship he would listen with great attention and apparent pleasure to the sailor’s songs while they or any body was singing […] Nevertheless the good captain took it into his head to learn vocal music & I for want of a better was selected to be his teacher. We now began to go thro’ the musical scales do, re, mi, fa, &C but poor Azor, dilettante as he was, could not bear the harsh sounds that issued from my pupil’s voice. As soon as we began the gamut, he set up such lamentable yells, that we were soon compelled to abandon our melodious exercises. The dog nevertheless continued to listen to other music, & did not lose his taste for that delightful art. But the gamut he never afterwards could bear; the moment any one began with do, re, mi, fa, he began his terrible howl & nothing would quieten him but some tune more to his taste. The captain pronounced that the dog had no ear for music; he was, nevertheless, greatly mortified that the animal’s taste did not coincide with his own.”

— Beaumarchais and the American Revolution, by Brian N. Morton · 2003

“[Peter Stephen Duponceau] undertook to give voice lessons to the ship’s captain, Pierre Landais of the French Royal Navy. Landais had determination but little talent, and his off-key caterwauling kept everyone amused—everyone, that is, except Azor, who took offense at Landais’s vocal endeavors and howled piteously whenever the captain took it in his head to sing.”

— The Drillmaster of Valley Forge: The Baron de Steuben and the Making of the American Army, by Paul D. Lockhart

[yr-obedt-cicero]

“I was in such spirits when I landed in my fine red coat, that I laid a wager with one of the passengers that I would kiss the first female that I should meet on the shore. It was a handsome young girl clad in a scarlet cloak: I marched up to her politely, told her the wager I had laid, expressing a hope that she would not suffer me to lose it. To my great astonishment she yielded with a good grace, and I triumphantly pocketed the money I had so agreeably won. Thus I was first wedded to this country.”

— “Notes and Documents: The Autobiography of Peter Stephen Du Ponceau, by Peter Stephen Du Ponceau and James L. Whitehead,” The Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography.

[marsfingershurt]

"One day, on board of the ship, he asked me the following strange question. "Why," said he "are you called Duponceau and not Duponcy it seems to me to sound much better? " I lost no time in answering him: "And you, Sir, why are you called Francy and not Franceau {franc sot, in English a downright fool)?" He stood abashed, affected to laugh, and never again tried his wit upon me."

LMAO

[yr-obedt-cicero]

How many of you actually knew about Pierre-Étienne du Ponceau before Soup started drawing him

[littlewritingrabbit]

Dancing Lessons

(Part 1) (There’s probably going to be more parts methinks)

“So,” said James Monroe, breaking the silence of Pierre du Ponceau’s room that had, thus far, only been interrupted by the quiet turning of pages like windblown leaves for at least an hour, “I hear Mrs. Washington is putting on a dance.”

“I hope that God is merciful,” said Pierre du Ponceau, which was not the usual response that Monroe heard when he announced this sort of news. Du Ponceau’s head emerged from a book of English poetry with a grave expression, “And I hope that He gives us some other chore to do to liberate us from that fate.”

Monroe laughed so hard his feet fell off the desk and hit the ground with a thud of heel on hardwood. “Would having to dance really be so bad?” he inquired, leaning the chair back once more and replacing his feet on the desk. “I thought all Frenchmen knew how to dance.”

“Almost certainly it would be so bad,” said du Ponceau with a frown. “A Frenchman I may be, but I simply cannot dance.”

“Have you ever had a lesson?” Monroe asked.

“Well, yes,” said du Ponceau, haltingly.

“And how did that go?” asked Monroe. The memory was clear in du Ponceau’s mind, as if he were watching its events come to pass in the rippling reflection of faces on the water of a pond.

 ~

It had been, at the time, 1772. The sun, high and impersonal in the sky, was nonetheless lending quite a pleasant warmth to the Isle of Re, and Pierre du Ponceau was in the garden with his sister, Louise-Genevieve, talking about the Latin names of plants as she made them into crowns. His eyes weren’t up to the task of maneuvering tiny stems in and around one another, but Louise had recently been given a pair of round silver spectacles that magnified her eyes to stunned-deer-like proportions, and so was getting quite adept at rediscovering the small details of the world they had both known as younger children before their eyesight had begun to fade. Pierre, not expected to stare at the tiny points of needlework in the same way Louise was, had been exempt from this parentally-implemented bespectacling, which suited him just fine, as he considered himself too much of a dandy to ever need glasses anyway.  

“Does that one have two rows of little leaves at the bottom of the flower?” he asked, “I can’t see from here.”

“Yes,” Louise replied, “They sort of overlap, one atop the other.”

“Altea setosa,” Pierre confirmed.

Louise-Genevieve picked another flower to add to the crown. “That sounds like someone’s name,” she mused. “Do you think it could be the name of a Roman lady from long, long ago?”

Pierre thought about this. He wasn’t sure entirely how flowers came to be named, but since the names were Latin, it was a safe bet that the Romans were involved somehow. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it was the name of the wife of the gentleman who discovered this flower.”

“Maybe it was the name of the lady who discovered it,” said Louise, and he giggled.

There was a shout from the house. This usually implied that the siblings were supposed to return, but they pretended they hadn’t heard while Louise finished the second crown. Whoever it was shouted again, so they placed the crowns on their heads and ran to the back door.

“I should not have to call you twice,” their mother said, by way of greeting. Madame Louisa-Frances du Ponceau de Fontenoy was hardly much taller than her children, but her uncrossable demeanor made her tower over them like a watchful goddess. Pierre could not recall if or when she’d ever hugged one of her children, lest she spoil them, but his mind readily supplied any number of stern proverbs she’d recited to them over the years.

Neither Pierre nor Louise-Genevieve said a word, but ducked into the house and followed their mother to the parlor. Their brother, Jean-Michel, was already perched on the divan, swinging his feet, across the room from a man that Pierre had never seen before.

The stranger was tall, and had long, thin legs, which he showed off in a pair of embroidered silk stockings. His coat-tails were also long, and swirled around the legs in question like seaweed when he moved from leaning with an elbow on the mantle to bow deeply to Pierre and Louise. They bowed back, a little out of time, and Pierre misjudged how far the ground really was from him, and almost lost his balance. The crown of altea setosa slipped lopsidedly on his head.

His mother pretended not to notice. “Children,” she said, “This is Monsieur Jean-Claude Hugo Samuel, who has come to our little island directly from Paris. He is a very learned man, and a dance instructor, and I expect you to carry yourselves with the utmost respect during your lessons with him.”

For the first half of this explanation, Pierre had been very on-board. A long, illustrious name? Amazing. He felt a kinship to this man already. A Parisian background? Stupendous! He’d always wondered what the capital was like, and what a cosmopolitan, shining city of learning it must be, and knowing this man came from such a city made him want to talk to the gentleman even more, in the event that he might find out what Paris was really like from one of its inhabitants. A learned man? Pierre struggled not to grin like a fool. He wondered how many languages Jean-Claude Hugo Samuel knew, and if, perhaps, any of them were English. If he had just gained a new friend to practice English with, this meeting would be well worth leaving the garden for.

And then, the dreaded title. A Dance Instructor.

Pierre tried to stay hopeful. Did he enjoy dancing? Well, he never had so far. But perhaps if his teacher were someone so interesting, he would be willing to give it his best attempt.

So he did. Once a week, he attended lessons, tried to execute the steps in the right order, or at least an order that wouldn’t make him step on Louise’s feet, tried to keep his arms up, not look down, turn at the corners of the room, etc. etc. This lasted about three weeks, until he decided it was all to no avail. The minuets were high-pitched and grating. The steps were confusing and impossible to execute any way that Monsieur Jean-Claude Hugo Samuel wouldn’t find fault with. And worst of all, his dance instructor would talk about nothing BUT dance, not languages, not Paris, totalement rien.

After this, Pierre’s reaction to dance classes became a question not of endurance, but of escape. He timed his chores so as to conflict with the lessons, and when his mother caught onto that, had his friends invite him out of the house just in time to avoid them. When all else failed, he and Louise fled the house upon hearing their mother open the front door.

They dashed down the hill towards the garden. “Where are we going?” Louise asked, her dress balled up tightly in her fists.

“Hiding!” said Pierre. He hadn’t inherited his father’s height the way Louise had, and was now struggling to keep pace.

“Hiding where?”

“I dunno!”

Louise sighed and seized his hand, pulling him towards a large willow tree that grew out over the edge of the garden pond. “Climb!” she instructed. They heard the sound of the back door opening, and someone shouting their names. Pierre let Louise give him a leg up and scrambled into the lower branches of the tree. She jumped in after him. A figure that could only be their mother, followed by one whose flying coattails signified Monsieur Jean-Claude Hugo Samuel, dashed down the hill. “Quickly,” said Louise, “Hide in the leaves!”

Pierre climbed higher, and then away from the trunk, bracing himself between branches that were starting to bend downwards under him.

“PIERRE ETIENNE DU PONCEAU!! What do you THINK you are DOING?!” Their mother had reached the bottom of the tree.

“Um…” said Pierre, but was saved answering, for at that moment, the branch beneath him snapped, and he plummeted directly into the pond.

 ~

Du Ponceau shook his head wearily at Monroe’s curious expression. “It did not go well,” he said simply. “In fact, it ended with me emerging from a pond to find myself confined to my room for two days.”

Monroe wondered what the story behind that could possibly be.

“Well I’m not letting you attend this dance entirely unprepared,” he said, in the stern way friends do when they have to look out for friends. “I shall find you a new dance-teacher if I have to scour the entirety of camp.” He smiled, almost deviously. “And I think I know where to start.”

“Where?” Du Ponceau’s eyebrows arched worriedly upwards.

“Why, I think the Baron von Steuben must have a free evening sometime this week…”

[littlewritingrabbit]

Dear dear @thegrinningone what have you done... XD

Adventure.

Drowning in an overcoat as large as a lake, provisioned with nothing but pocket lint and a copy of King Lear he had been too nostalgic to let go of (it had been his father’s, after all), and adrift in the currents of the Parisian streets, Pierre Etienne du Ponceau was in a desperate state. He had used up all of the pocket money he’d brought along when he left the school, and the quick translations in the marketplace had been enough to provide some food for the first fortnight, at least until this tempest had started. Under the weight of such a downpour and a Sunday that was at least supposed to be spent in pious contemplation (but this was Paris, so the odds of that were not, perhaps, great), the streets had been all too quiet. And now Pierre, clutching his book to his chest, was ready to faint with hunger.

Was this worth it? He asked himself bitterly, wiping the rain from his glasses. Was this worth the pettiness of leaving school, the youthful search for adventure that his straight-laced, religious teachers had so disapproved of? Oh they had praised him enough when he brought back top grades in Greek and Latin, but as soon as he had the nerve to ask one too many questions, or pay a fellow student a compliment they thought too personal, suddenly they spoke in quotes about forbidden fruit and little boys who talk too much, and he felt exasperated. What were they afraid of? That he might admire his classmates? That there might have been a fellow in the second row with the most wonderful curls whose hand he might have bowed to kiss? That he might ask a question that neither they or their myriad quotes could answer?

If Pierre du Ponceau was going to learn about the world, he was not going to do so by being afraid of it.

So he fled to the libraries in Paris, whose tall shelves loomed up like a forest of words. He soaked in the melting-pot accents of the trading ports and translated for passerby who paid small change. There were soldiers with political opinions as varied as the colours of their uniforms, and monuments to long-dead heroes, and everywhere there was brilliant, vulgar, unstifled life. There wasn’t enough to pay admission for the likes of museums and scientific lectures, but perhaps one day. He could live with a loosening coat and a grumbling stomach to finally be on a real adventure.

At least, he could, before it got really bad.

But now, he could tell, he was going to get sick. He was sniffling already. And a groaning hunger in the pit of his stomach was not helping. Hence the desperate state that started to draw his eyes to the pockets of passerby.

You’re not a thief, he told himself. You may be a runaway and an book-loving, insubordinate fool, but you are no criminal.

But as the sun set, the argument wore thin. He started to contemplate the mechanics of it. You’d have to bump into someone, keep your fingers light, keep their eyes away from whatever trinket you pried from their pockets. In theory. And how much of a crime would it be, really, if the person was so well-off they hardly noticed the few coins that needed taking? That businessman by the inn, or the dandy on the street-corner. Either could spare a sou or two.

Or perhaps, he thought, mind and heart racing, that officer making his way towards him. The soldier was tall and broad-shouldered, sauntering in a good-natured way down the sidewalk. A Prussian officer, probably fresh from the ranks of His Majesty. He looked well-fed and sanguine - he would probably never miss the presence of a trinket from those enticing pockets...

Pierre slowed down imperceptibly, just moments before he passed the officer. They were close enough that he could smell the expensive roast he must have eaten for dinner. The boy made a false stumble and bumped shoulders with the officer, letting a hand fall into his pocket in the confusion and walking off with an apology and a handful of... something.

Once he was certain the pilfered Prussian was far enough away, Pierre ducked around a corner and opened his hand, revealing... a poem?

Of course he read it. After all, he had gone to a lot of effort to procure it. It was relatively short, relatively rude, and also written in Ancient Greek. It suggested things about the officer’s character that would have sent his past teachers into a rage of apple-themed quotations. So there was really nothing for it but to laugh, merrily and loud against the rainy drumbeat, before setting off to return the note.

He caught up with the officer a few blocks further on. “Monsieur, I... I believe...”

The man’s stare made him falter. He had a look in his eyes and a quirk to his expression like he was privy to a secret the whole world was anticipating. In any other situation, Pierre would have found it irritating, but at the moment he was far too hungry. Wordlessly, he held out the poem.

The officer looked from the extended paper to his face, and then back once more. Several silent, rain-filled seconds later, he began to chuckle. A laugh rumbled up from inside him and exploded like a cannon in the darkened street. It wasn’t long before du Ponceau was laughing along with him. “Not what you’d expected, eh Monsieur?” roared the officer, wiping his eyes. “Well it’s a good job you got some proper literature for your pains, isn’t it?” he chuckled again. “Tell me, monsieur, can you read Ancient Greek?”

Now it was du Ponceau’s turn to look confusedly at the poem for a moment. “Why... yes. Yes I can.”

“Splendid!” said the officer, giving Pierre a good-natured tug under an awning where he wouldn’t be required to stand gaping in the rain like a fish. “Then you shall translate this poem for me, as it is from a dear admirer of mine, and I shall buy you supper. How does that sound?”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Pierre smiled stiffly, before the officer laughed again and kissed the air on either side of his face.

“Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Stueben, at your service,” he said, with an extravagant bow.

“Pierre Etienne du Ponceau at yours,” Pierre replied, remembering his manners enough to bow until his hair fell into is face. “And...” he inspected the poem once more, “This gentleman certainly has a lot to say about your... friendship.”

“You’ve translated-”

“Everything. It was rather brief after all,” Pierre smiled again at the look of shocked admiration on von Steuben’s face.

“Good Lord monsieur,” said the Baron, “how many languages can you speak?”

“No more than six, certainly. But Greek is, quite honestly, new, so I am perhaps not as well-versed...”

“My friend, that is superb! It’s tremendous! The great schools of the world ought to be clamoring to have your attendance!”

It was only when he became aware that he was blushing that Pierre attempted to stop, but that only made him blush more. “I’m afraid they are doing no such thing... quite yet. I’m more of a... library-scholar.” There were certainly worse ways to say ‘runaway’.

“Would you much prefer being a secretary, then?” Von Steuben seemed to understand what he meant. Something in the officer’s expression had changed, Pierre realized, as it now seemed as if they were both bearers of a secret the rest of the world only hoped to know. Now this felt like the start of an adventure.

“There is not a job I would prefer at this moment,” he smiled.

“Then I am sure we will get along wonderfully, Monsieur le Secretaire,” and for good measure, the baron stooped down and made two air-kisses on either side of du Ponceau’s head.