** Chapter 1: The revelers **

That night of December 1821 was a cover of darkness that enveloped the town of Château-Thierry, its cobblestone streets glistening with the remnants of a recent rain. There was a lingering aroma of pipe tobacco from the nearby taverns around the town square. The silence was broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl perched high in the ancient trees that lined the square. In a modest one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a narrow building, three friends lay in their separate beds, each struggling to find the elusive embrace of sleep. Suddenly, the tranquility was shattered by a cacophony of loud music and raucous laughter that echoed through the narrow streets below.

Monsieur Henri, a man with a distinguished air, sat up with a start, his eyes wide with annoyance. Beside him, Saint-Nicolas clenched his fists in frustration. Francis, the youngest of the three, let out a sigh of exasperation, his eyes reflecting the irritation that gnawed at his insides. They exchanged knowing glances, each silently cursing the late-night revelers who had disturbed their much-needed rest. "By all that is holy, what is that infernal racket?" grumbled Monsieur Henri, his voice heavy with sleep and irritation. "It's as if the very devil has taken residence in our neighborhood." He sat up, his nightcap askew, and glared at his two companions. "This place has become a den of iniquity, I tell you! Drunks roaming the streets at all hours, singing bawdy songs and vomiting in the gutters. It's a disgrace!"

Saint-Nicolas regarded Monsieur Henri with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Come now, Henri, you're being a bit melodramatic, aren't you? It's not as if we're living in the slums of Paris."

"Melodramatic?' Henri spluttered, his face turning a shade of red that would have made a tomato envious. "I'll have you know that I've seen better days, and this... this arrangement of ours is not helping my reputation in the least!"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "What arrangement are you referring to, Henri? Our shared apartment?"

"Yes, precisely!" Henri exclaimed, waving his arms about. "Living together like this, it's... it's unseemly! The neighbors are starting to talk, I tell you. They're whispering and casting sidelong glances at us. They think we're... they think we're..." He couldn't bring himself to say the word, but the implication was clear.

Saint-Nicolas chuckled softly. "And what if they do, Henri? What does it matter what they think? We're grown men, capable of making our own choices."

"It matters because of Mademoiselle Charlotte," Henri said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "She's the daughter of the Count de Montmorency, and I've been trying to win her favor. But now, with this... this scandalous living arrangement, she must think me a... a..." He trailed off, looking utterly dejected.

Francis stood up, "Henri, you're letting your imagination run away with you. Mademoiselle Charlotte is a sensible young woman, and I'm sure she doesn't give a damn for what the neighbors think. Besides, we're not doing anything wrong by sharing an apartment."

"But the appearance of it, Francis!" Henri cried, his hands clasped in supplication. "The appearance of it! We must think of our reputations, our standing in society!"

Saint-Nicolas stood up and stretched, his tall frame casting a long shadow on the wall. "Enough of this talk, Henri. We'll go and see what the commotion is about, and perhaps we can put an end to it. But I won't have you fretting over what others think. We're men of honor, and that's what matters most."

The three men, still in their nightclothes, descended the creaking stairs of their apartment building and stepped out into the cool night air. The source of the noise soon became apparent - a group of revelers, their faces flushed with drink and merriment, were dancing and singing in the street. As Saint-Nicolas and his companions approached, they were met with a sight that made their stomachs churn.

The imbeciles, as Monsieur Henri had so aptly named them, were engaged in a most disgusting and unnatural act. They were shitting from their faces, their eyes glazed over with a mixture of intoxication and madness. The stench was overpowering, and the three friends had to cover their noses and mouths to avoid retching.

Saint-Nicolas, despite his revulsion, tried to approach the group with a calm and measured demeanor. "My friends," he began, his voice barely audible over the din of the music, "it is late, and we are trying to sleep. Might I ask you to keep the noise down, or perhaps continue your festivities elsewhere?"

The response he received was not what he had hoped for. The revelers, their senses dulled by alcohol and their minds clouded by the unnatural act they were engaged in, turned their attention to the three men. Their eyes, once filled with mirth, now burned with a malevolent intensity.

"Who are you to tell us what to do?" snarled one of the imbeciles, his face still smeared with his own excrement. "We'll make as much noise as we like, and there's nothing you can do about it!" A chorus of drunken choruses spread through the grotesque assembly, their laughter forming a discordant symphony of revelry and depravity. Monsieur Henri, whose usually impeccable composure had been shaken, bristled at the insolence. It was then that the most repugnant specimen of them all, a creature whose face alone seemed to mock the laws of hygiene, fixed Henri's mustache with a snide look.

"He thinks the fur on your lip makes you a ladies' man! Moustache means pedophile, you old fool!" A wave of guttural laughter erupted, echoing off the damp brick walls of the alley. Henri, however, responded to the accusation with a fierce disdain that belied his gentlemanly upbringing. "We're still in the 19th century, where the mustache is synonymous with virility, not the perversions of your sick mind," he spat, his voice imbued with icy contempt. And what about the excrement that obscures your own features? Isn't that a more fitting symbol of your depravity?"

The fool, taken aback by Henri's reply and its unexpected logic, stepped back as if struck. Shame, an emotion foreign to his miserable existence, passed over his face, turning into a pathetic whimper. He turned on his heel and fled, crying and calling for his mother in a voice as shrill as a broken violin, a ridiculous spectacle that drew the bewildered stares of his companions.

Francis, seizing the opportunity, threw himself at another reveler, triggering a brawl that quickly degenerated into a chaotic melee. Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri, caught up in the maelstrom, found themselves locked in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Teeth were shattered, noses broken and blood painted the cobblestones crimson. The air reeked of sweat, fury and the sickly stench of partygoers' unguents. Henri, a whirlwind of righteous fury, fought with a ferocity born of years of suppressed indignation. Each blow was delivered with the precision of a seasoned duellist, fueled by a burning desire to restore order to this obscene tableau.

As the fight reached a crescendo, a figure emerged from the shadows, a corpulent, balding man, dressed in a grotesque mask that concealed his features, and in filthy, disgusting clothes, stained with excrement, as an emblem of his vileness. He seemed to be the leader of this band of fools. He raised his hand, silencing the pandemonium with unexpected authority. The thugs, immediately intimidated, stepped back, their aggression evaporating like a morning mist. With a flick of his hand, the masked man removed his disguise, revealing a face marked by time and... familiarity. A collective gasp escaped from Saint-Nicolas, Monsieur Henri and Francis. Before them stood Luc, their old friend, thought to be languishing in a nursing home, succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer's disease. Yet there he was, imposing in the midst of this misery, his eyes shining with a disconcerting intelligence. The revelation hung in the air, a chilling twist in a night already on the precipice of the absurd.

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** Chapter 2: Nine month before the revelers' incident **

Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri, the bravest of warriors against the forces of darkness, found themselves confronted with a far more insidious enemy: the cruel ravages of time. Their friend Luc, once a shining beacon of courage and honor, now lay helpless in a nursing home, his mind and body ravaged by the merciless grip of Alzheimer's disease.

As they entered the room, the stench of decay and despair assaulted their senses. Luc, once a bulky figure, now lay shrunken and frail, his eyes vacant, his mind lost in a labyrinth of confusion and despair. The sight of him, soiled and incontinent, filled Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri with a profound disgust and nausea that threatened to overwhelm them.

They turned away, their faces contorted in revulsion, as the nurse rushed to clean up the mess. The sound of retching filled the air as Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri vomited, their bodies rebelling against the horror they had witnessed. The nurse with her face a mask of professional detachment, efficiently wiped down the bed and changed Luc's soiled garments, her hands moving with a practiced efficiency that belied the revulsion she must have felt. She also had to clean up the vomit that had splattered on the floor and the wall, her stomach churning at the sight. Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri, their faces pale, apologized profusely for their loss of control, their voices shaking with remorse.

Despite the overwhelming grief and despair that threatened to consume them, Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri rallied around their friend, offering what comfort they could in the face of his tragic decline. They spoke softly, reminiscing about the past, trying to reach the man they once knew, but Luc's eyes remained blank, unresponsive to their words. As they sat by his bedside, Saint-Nicolas turned to Monsieur Henri, his voice heavy with sorrow. "We must entrust our mission to someone else, Henri. Luc can no longer carry the burden." Monsieur Henri nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. "I fear you are right, Nicolas. But who can take his place? Who can carry on his legacy?"

Saint-Nicolas's gaze fell upon the young man who was driving their horse carriage, who is now standing in the corner of the room, shy. "Francis," he said, his voice firm and resolute. "He has the heart and the courage. We must train him, Henri. Teach him the ways of our order, the importance of purity, discipline, and honor." Monsieur Henri looked at Francis, then back at Saint-Nicolas, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "You are right, Nicolas. We must pass on the torch to the next generation." "But Saint-Nicolas," Henri said, his voice tinged with doubt, "Francis has... issues. He has been known to... indulge in certain vices with the animals on the farm." He glanced at Francis, who looked down, his face flushing. "I fear he may not be the best candidate for our order."

Saint-Nicolas placed a reassuring hand on Henri's shoulder. "I have faith in Francis, Henri. With guidance and discipline, I am confident he can overcome his temptations and become a true servant of purity." Saint-Nicolas nodded to Henri and then turned to Francis, his eyes filled with compassion. "Francis, I would like to speak with you privately for a moment." Francis followed him out of the room, and once they were alone, Saint-Nicolas said, "Francis, I believe you have great potential to serve our order. Would you be willing to join us and dedicate yourself to a life of purity and service?" Francis's face lit up with excitement. "Oh, yes, Saint-Nicolas! I would be honored to join your order!" Saint-Nicolas smiled warmly. "Excellent. I will begin training you next week. Until then, please refrain from any further... indulgences." Francis listened intently, his eyes wide with wonder and respect. "I will not fail you, Saint-Nicolas," he vowed. "I will carry on Luc's legacy, and yours, with every fiber of my being."

Later that evening, as they sat in a small, warm tavern, the comforting scent of woodsmoke and the soft glow of candles enveloped them, Saint-Nicolas turned to Monsieur Henri and Francis. "You are both welcome to stay with me in my small apartment," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "It would be much easier for us to coordinate our crime-fighting activities if we were all under one roof. Of course, we would need to make sure to sleep in separate beds, to avoid any...misunderstandings." Monsieur Henri nodded, though he seemed slightly hesitant, his brow furrowed in concern. He was worried about how his reputation might suffer if people perceived him as sharing a room with another man. Francis, however, seemed entirely at ease with the arrangement, and he smiled warmly at Saint-Nicolas.

They ordered supper, and as they ate, the tavern grew louder and more boisterous. Saint-Nicolas, slightly drunk from the wine, caught the eye of a sexy, curvy waitress who had been flitting between the tables, refilling mugs and collecting plates. She flashed him a flirtatious smile, and he felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of bedding her soon. As they finished their meal, he made a few salacious remarks, his voice low and suggestive, which made her blush a deep crimson. "Ah, I think I may have found a new playmate for the night," he chuckled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. The waitress giggled, her cheeks still flushed, and Saint-Nicolas knew he had her hooked.

As the evening wore on, the three friends shared stories of their past battles, of the triumphs and tragedies that had shaped their lives. They spoke of Luc, of his bravery and his unwavering commitment to their cause. And though the pain of his decline was still fresh, they found solace in the memories they shared, in the knowledge that their friendship and loyalty would endure, even in the face of death and despair. As the candles flickered and the fire crackled, Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri knew that they had made the right decision. They had entrusted their mission to a worthy successor, and though Luc was lost to them, his spirit would live on through Francis.

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** Chapter 3: three months before the reveler's incident **

In a seedy hostel in the center of Reims, Saint-Nicolas found himself in a compromising position. He was engaged in the act of carnal pleasure with yet another beautiful, curvaceous waitress he had picked up a few days before. Her name was Antoinette, and she was incredibly alluring.

As Saint-Nicolas plunged into Antoinette's welcoming warmth, her soft moans filled the room like a melody of pleasure that spurred him on. Her body responded eagerly to his every touch, her hips rising to meet his thrusts with a fervor that belied her demure exterior. The sensation of her tight, velvety walls enveloping him sent shivers of ecstasy coursing through his veins, and he could feel his own desire mounting with each passing moment.

But as Saint-Nicolas thrust into her, his mind began to wander, as it often did during such intimate moments. He started to question his own virility, his manhood. Was he performing adequately? Was his member large enough to satisfy a woman of Antoinette's beauty and passion? These doubts gnawed at him, and before he could rein in his thoughts, he felt the telltale signs of his impending release.

"Non, non," he muttered, trying to hold back, but it was too late. With a groan, he spilled his seed inside her, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. As the waves of pleasure subsided, a new wave of panic washed over him. He had not intended to release inside her. What if she became with child? The scandal would be immense. A man of his standing, a living saint, reduced to a common adulterer and father of a bastard child? The thought was unbearable.

Just as he was contemplating this dire situation, the sound of gunshots rang out, shattering the quiet of the night. Bullets whizzed through the air, and Saint-Nicolas heard a sickening thud as one found its mark. Antoinette let out a cry of pain, then her body going limp beneath him. He turned to see blood pooling around her head, her eyes wide and lifeless.

For a moment, Saint-Nicolas was frozen in shock. Then, the reality of his situation hit him. He was in danger. The shooters outside, whoever they were, could hit him at any moment. He had to escape.

With a final, desperate glance at Antoinette's lifeless form, Saint-Nicolas scrambled off the bed. He grabbed his clothes, pulling them on haphazardly as he made his way to the back door of the room. More gunshots rang out, and he ducked instinctively, his heart pounding in his chest.

As he reached the door, he paused, listening for any sign of the thugs approaching. When he heard nothing, he took a deep breath and flung the door open, darting out into the night. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, not stopping until he was several streets away from the hostel.

As he caught his breath, Saint-Nicolas looked back at the scene he had left behind. The hostel was now silent, the gunshots having ceased. He knew he should feel remorse for Antoinette's death, but all he could feel was relief. The scandal had been averted, his reputation saved, untainted by the sins of the flesh. With a heavy sigh, Saint-Nicolas adjusted his clothing and set off into the night.

As he walked, the night air was cool against his skin, the moon casting long shadows that danced with each step. The road stretched out before him, a ribbon of darkness that seemed to have no end. After what felt like hours, the distant sound of hooves and the creaking of wheels reached his ears. A carriage appeared, its lanterns casting a warm glow in the night.

As it drew near, Saint-Nicolas could see that it was occupied by three young women, their laughter carrying on the breeze. The driver, a grizzled old man, pulled the horses to a stop and eyed Saint-Nicolas warily. "Where are you headed, sir?" he asked, his voice gruff. "Chateau-Thierry," Saint-Nicolas replied. The driver nodded and motioned for him to climb aboard. As he did, the three women turned to look at him, their eyes sparkling with curiosity and a hint of mischief.

"Well, well," one of them purred, her voice like honey. "What have we here?" Saint-Nicolas felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks as he met their gaze. Despite the horrors of the night, he couldn't help but feel a spark of excitement at their attention. He could guess that the three women in the carriage were hookers, but he didn't mind. In fact, he loved hookers just as much as the next man, and he was therefore eager to be in their company. The journey passed in a blur of flirtatious banter and stolen glances, the women's laughter filling the carriage like music. By the time they reached the outskirts of Chateau-Thierry, Saint-Nicolas felt a sense of regret that their time together was coming to an end. As he stepped out of the carriage, he turned to the women and bowed. "Thank you for the company, ladies," he said. "The pleasure was all ours," one of them replied with a wink. With a final smile, Saint-Nicolas turned and made his way into the town.

His eyes scanned the quiet streets, taking in the quaint shops and houses, before settling on the tobacconist's store. He needed a refill for his pipe.

As he entered the store, the bell above the door jingled, announcing his presence. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with a kind face, greeted him warmly. Saint-Nicolas browsed the shelves, selecting a few packets of his favorite tobacco before approaching the counter. However, he soon realized he was not alone in the queue, and his gaze fell upon an old and fat woman standing in front of him.

She was a repulsive sight, her once-beautiful features now distorted by age and excess weight. Saint-Nicolas couldn't help but think that she must have been stunning in her youth, but now she was a grotesque gargoyle. His irritation grew as he watched her continue to shop while waiting in line, constantly reaching back for items she had missed earlier. Saint-Nicolas' patience wore thin with each passing moment. Finally, he could bear it no longer. "Madam," he said, his voice laced with irritation, "might I suggest you finish your shopping before joining the queue? You are causing quite the delay."

The woman turned to him, her eyes wide with indignation. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with offense. "I am a respected member of this community, not some common street urchin. Even if you are a great bishop, you should be mindful of how to speak with a woman."

Saint-Nicolas merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by her self-proclaimed importance. "Respect is earned, madam," he replied coolly. "Now, if you would be so kind as to allow those of us with a modicum of courtesy to proceed, we would all be most grateful."

The woman's face crumpled, and she began to weep, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. Saint-Nicolas, however, remained unmoved. He had no time for the histrionics of a woman scorned, especially one who had shown such a lack of consideration for others.

The sun had barely risen over Chateau-Thierry when Saint-Nicolas arrived in front of his building. He made his way up to his apartment. As he entered, he was greeted by the concerned face of his friend, Monsieur Henri.

"Saint-Nicolas, what happened?" Henri asked, his voice laced with worry.

Saint-Nicolas took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "It was... it was terrible Henri", and he recounted the events of last night.

Monsieur Henri's face flushed, "It's not fair, Nicolas. You, an old lecherous man, can get all the beautiful women, while I, a distinguished gentleman, cannot get a break. I have to release myself only by myself, and it's not fair, I tell you!"

Saint-Nicolas was take aback by this outburst, "Henri, the important part of the story wasn't the prostitutes or my attractiveness to women, but the fact that last night someone tried to kill me and have killed my mistress. Can we focus please?"

Henri, caught up in his own woes, initially missed the gravity of the situation. "Mon Dieu, Saint-Nicolas. I mean yes of course, this is grave. It seems to me that someone was after you, not her." He paused, realizing the absurdity of his previous rant.

Saint-Nicolas nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Yes, I fear you are right. But who? And why?"

"We must be careful, my friend," Henri said, his voice low. "We must find out who is behind this before they strike again."

Saint-Nicolas agreed, and together they made their way to the nearby farm, where their friend Francis worked. As they approached, they were met by Francis' assistant on the farm, a repulsive young man who looked like a toothpick and had an nose like a pig. His skin was a sickly pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were beady and close-set, giving him a constant look of imbecility. His lips were thin and colorless, stretched tightly over his yellowed teeth, and his breath reeked of decay and corruption. Saint-Nicolas felt a wave of revulsion wash over him as he beheld this grotesque creature, and he had to fight the urge to turn and flee from the farm altogether.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the youth said, his voice nasally and unpleasant.

Saint-Nicolas couldn't help but think to himself, "This disgusting, ugly youth will never get laid. He is too repulsive for any woman to bear."

They found Francis in the barn, tending to his flock with great fervor, his hands caressing the wool of a particularly plump ewe. The sheep bleated softly, and Francis quickly adjusted his stance, a guilty flush creeping up his neck as his friends entered. When they told him about the shooting, his face darkened with anger.

"Someone tried to kill you, Saint-Nicolas?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "This is unacceptable."

Francis then turned his attention to his assistant, who had followed them into the barn. "And you, boy, have you been stealing my chickens again?"

The youth looked taken aback. "No, sir! I would never do such a thing!"

Francis scoffed. "Liar! I know it was you. You're nothing but a thief and a scoundrel."

Saint-Nicolas watched the exchange, his mind still focused on the more pressing matter at hand. He knew he needed to find out who was after him, and quickly, before they struck again.

Francis rose from his seat with a menacing glint in his eye. His ugly young assistant cowered before him, knowing full well the wrath that was about to be unleashed. Francis' voice boomed through the room, "You will confess, you miserable wretch, or I shall make you wish you had never been born!"

Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri exchanged worried glances. They had just informed Francis of the attempt on Saint-Nicolas' life - but the man seemed more concerned with his missing chickens. It was as if the world was crumbling around them, and all he could focus on was this petty theft.

The youth finally broke. "I... I confess, master! I stole your chickens, but it was not my idea! An old man, a bald, fat man named Luc, he... he told me to do it!"

A collective gasp echoed through the room. Luc was on his deathbed in a nursing home. How could he be involved in such a scheme?

Francis' face contorted with rage. He grabbed a pitchfork, its tines glinting menacingly. "You lie!" he roared, advancing on the youth. "Tell me more, or I shall carve the truth from your flesh!"

The toothpick, now sobbing uncontrollably, blurted out, "I swear, master! It was Luc! He said he needed the chickens for a... a ritual! He said he would make me rich if I helped him!"

Francis paused, the fork still poised to strike. A ritual? It was too much to comprehend. He looked to Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri, seeking some form of understanding, but their faces were blank.

Francis let out a roar of rage, his eyes wild with bloodlust. The pitchfork in his hands was a weapon of destruction. The boy stood before him, trembling, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. With a guttural growl, Francis lunged forward, driving the pitchfork deep into the boy's flesh. The boy's screams echoed through the air in agony and despair. Francis twisted the pitchfork, his muscles straining, and with a sickening, wet sound, he tore it free, a chunk of the boy's innards spilling out in a grotesque, bloody mess. The toothpick collapsed to the ground, his life ebbing away in a pool of blood, his body a broken, mangled wreck. Francis stood over him, panting, his hands slick with blood, a maniacal sneer spreading across his face. The stench of gore and death filled the barn.

Saint-Nicolas felt a strange sense of relief wash over him. The world was a better place without such an ugly, wretched creature in it, even if he knew he shouldn't feel that way. It was a sin, after all, to take joy in another's death.

Monsieur Henri placed a hand on Francis' shoulder. "You must control your anger Francis."

Francis nodded, his rage slowly subsiding, then started justifying his actions, his voice trembling with lingering anger. "He was a monster, Monsieur Henri! A vile, disgusting creature who deserved no better fate. I could not stand the sight of him, the sound of his voice. It was as if he was a blight upon this earth, and I, in my own small way, had cleansed it of his presence."

Saint-Nicolas, his eyes filled with a strange understanding, placed a comforting hand on Francis' arm. "Do not fret, Francis. We understand. That wretched boy had it coming to him. If it had not been you, I myself would have gladly dispatched him to the devil. But now, let us focus on what truly matters: who was it who sought to end my life last night?"

Francis, his heart swelling with gratitude for their understanding, nodded solemnly. However, a flicker of irritation crossed his face as he considered the added burden of cleaning up the boy's butchered body. He already had enough work to do, even more so now that this assistant was dead. The thought of it weighed heavily on his mind. He also hoped that the killing of the ugly toothpick hadn't upset the sheep and the goats, as he didn't want any further disruptions in his daily routine. Saint-Nicolas and Monsieur Henri, sensing his concerns, reassured him that this was not a priority at the moment and that they should focus on the more pressing matters.

The three friends left the stable together, the lifeless body of the toothpick lying forgotten in the straw, and made their way to a nearby inn for a hearty breakfast, their appetites whetted by the morning's events.