There were some things a man didnât do, not when he was trying to be responsible. Some of these things were rather clear-cut, like not sleeping with prostitutes or punting children under the wheels of carriages. It was when situations became not patently illegal that those lines tended to blur, but if anything, he was intimately aware that morality did not always equate with legality. Sometimes the law served as a weapon that was particularly difficult to disarm, sharpened on two sides to cut the wielder as much as the victim. These were the things he liked to think about when he was drunk, as he was moderately deep like that. All the coalescing thoughts freed from their initial congealment, and he could think about the true nature of right and wrong, good and evil, and whether or not in was involved in either side. He rather thought he wasnât.
There were some times that Tristan â or RenĂ© now, wasnât it â wondered if he was a good person. Like now â caught in a tight, snug little gambling ring with a head that was pleasantly fuzzy and a rather dubious hand of cards. He wondered if he was truly justified in gambling if he didnât intend to do anything with the money for himself. After all, life as a rich manâs son had shown him the essential futility of money when the rest of a personâs life was empty, but he also knew it was terribly hard to think of deep philosophy when a personâs stomach was empty as well. He thought heâd donate the proceeds, if any, to the Court of Miracles â but he also thought, that perhaps this was just an excuse to make him feel better about the fact that he rather liked gambling cards. He enjoyed high stakes and the rush of adrenaline that came along with it, and he also liked making people who were full of themselves look stupid, which he supposed wasnât entirely a perfect motivation.
It was difficult not to want to do that, however, if the main person you were playing cards with was a former Dutchman with a squint, a pedigree long as his arm, an obnoxiously extended vocabulary, and a history of being fond of the Red Guard. As a Musketeer, RenĂ© thought it in his job description to at least tease those of the Cardinalâs regiment, even if he hadnât any true reason â yet â to dislike them. In any case, he didnât like groupies, particularly men like the one before him that wouldnât enlist due to their mothers writing a health excuse - something about an allergy to dirt. And yet, he was in the Highwayman tavern, gambling with a Musketeer and an ex-infantryman in a place more famous for its muddiness than its ale. Something about that seemed suspicious to him.
Baron von Tightpants (he could never remember his full name, and it was an accurate moniker), was currently, however, making eye-contact with him, and so René paused in his analysis. This was to be a new year, he thought. He was going to be a better person, he thought, which meant honesty. So when he was squinted at profusely and asked to empty out his sleeves by the Dutchman, he did so.
An ace fluttered out, followed by a light cascade of other cards of various denominations. He shrugged, turning over a new leaf in life. He had been cheating in cards. He wasnât about to deny it. He was never particularly good at gambling without cheating, but that was rather the fun in it. No one could call him a liar. A cheat perhaps, not a complete and utter bastard.
âAll right, letâs do this, only, donât scuff the face. Might need it for later.â
His heart beat out of his chest at the sudden silence and the sudden toying of hands at sword hilts. There would undoubtedly be a fight. This was not something a good man engaged in.
René Louvel was a good man, he thought of himself, as the tension grew thicker in the small tavern.
What he wasnât, he conceded, was a saint.
Baron von Tightpants had an eminently punchable face. He had always thought so.
And this time, René hit it.
