As chronicled by Carson, the quartet’s devoted (and long-suffering) butler.
Ah, yes. Another evening in the hallowed halls of the aristocracy. The chandelier polished to within an inch of its opulent life, the silverware aligned with military precision, and the velvet curtains drawn just so, allowing the perfect amount of moonlight to spill across the room like an uninvited guest. Lady Lorraine had declared, with her usual flair, that tonight was to be "the most exclusive gathering society has ever known." A declaration she made at precisely 9:07 this morning before fainting dramatically into her chair because the tea was precisely one degree too cool.
I had been informed that the guest list was so selective, it consisted only of The Aristocrats themselves. One could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the world outside these walls.
The quartet had gathered in the grand drawing room. Faux Pas, in his role as Master of Ceremonies (a title he awarded himself), stood at the helm of the evening’s planned debacle—I mean, festivities.
“I believe, dear friends,” Faux Pas began with his characteristic pomposity, “that tonight, we shall make history. The finest evening that ever... eveninged.” His attempt at grandeur was, as always, marred by an unforgivable clumsiness in both speech and action. As he raised a glass to toast, he knocked over a priceless Ming vase, which landed with a crack that echoed through the hall like a cannonball, followed by the unmistakable sound of Lady Lorraine swooning once again into her chaise longue. I’ve long since stopped keeping count of how often that particular piece of furniture has had to be reupholstered.
“I never liked that vase anyway,” Béarnaise sighed, waving his enormous white handkerchief at the offending shards with a dainty flick of the wrist, as though they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his otherwise perfect world. “Too… blue.”
“Béarnaise, dear fellow,” Faux Pas replied, still clutching his goblet, “that vase was a symbol of our family’s long-standing relationship with the Ming dynasty.”
“Ming?” Béarnaise arched an eyebrow. “Sounds rather common, doesn’t it?”
It was at this point that Cliché, eager as ever to contribute, leaned forward in his chair, an expression of triumph dawning on his face as though he were about to impart some deep, philosophical revelation.
“Well, you know what they say,” he announced to the room. “You can’t put a broken vase back together again.”
I stood nearby, dutifully silent, but inwardly wondering if the phrase was actually about eggs. No matter. Cliché’s eagerness to fit in was never dampened by such trivialities as accuracy.
Hors d’oeuvre, who had spent the last few minutes inspecting the grand candelabra with the wide-eyed curiosity of a house cat, suddenly spoke. “But can you put it back together with jam?”
The room fell silent. No one was quite sure how to respond to Hors d’oeuvre’s interjection, least of all Hors d’oeuvre himself, who now stared at the broken vase as though expecting it to spring back to life, repaired by some mystical combination of fruit preserves and good intentions.
Lady Lorraine, having recovered from her latest fainting spell, rose unsteadily and made her way to the centre of the room, where Faux Pas was still clutching his goblet. “I daresay, Faux Pas,” she intoned with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean queen, “your hosting skills leave something to be desired. Why, the ambiance is entirely ruined!” And with that, she cast herself dramatically onto a nearby settee, narrowly avoiding a second fainting spell as she did so.
“Well,” Faux Pas said, clearly flustered but determined to soldier on, “the evening is far from over. Perhaps… music?”
I had, of course, anticipated this. The quartet’s idea of “music” was an unholy cacophony of mismatched instruments and poorly remembered tunes, but I had arranged the grand piano to be in place, nonetheless. Béarnaise approached it, wiping his hands with his handkerchief as though preparing for surgery.
“What should I play?” Béarnaise asked, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the keys.
“Oh!” Cliché exclaimed, “Play something… classical! You know, something like... Beethoven’s Greatest Hits.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. There is, of course, no such thing. But Béarnaise, ever the obliging sort, began what I can only describe as an aggressively interpretive version of Für Elise. The tempo was erratic, and at one point, I believe he briefly transitioned into something resembling Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Hors d’oeuvre, still pondering the mystery of the jam, began nodding enthusiastically to the discordant tune.
Faux Pas, ever the leader, clapped along loudly—completely out of rhythm, of course—until his wine glass, now precariously balanced on the edge of the piano, took a suicidal plunge and smashed to the floor. The sound reverberated through the room, triggering yet another fainting episode from Lady Lorraine, who, by now, had slid so far down the settee, I wondered if I might have to retrieve her with a crowbar.
The pièce de résistance, however, came when the butler-in-training—young Cedric—entered the room with what I can only assume was meant to be the evening’s gourmet offering: a selection of exotic cheeses. Unfortunately, Cedric, bless his soul, had the balance of a drunken fawn and promptly tripped over his own feet, launching the cheese platter into the air like a dairy-based fireworks display. A brie landed on Béarnaise’s lap, while a rogue camembert rolled beneath Lady Lorraine’s chaise, surely never to be seen again.
“Well, as they say,” Cliché added brightly, “that’s the way the cheese crumbles.”
Lady Lorraine, now half-hidden behind the settee, let out a faint, pitiful moan. Faux Pas, ignoring all evidence to the contrary, stood proudly at the centre of the room.
“I declare tonight’s gathering a roaring success!” he proclaimed, clearly convinced that the evening had unfolded exactly as he had envisioned.
“Indeed,” I murmured, stepping over the wreckage of both vase and cheese, “an evening for the history books.”
And thus, the night ended as most noble nights do in this household: with fainting, misplaced confidence, and just a hint of camembert tucked away in an impossible corner. As I returned to the kitchen to ready the broom, I couldn’t help but think, with some small measure of affection, that if these are the finest of high society, the world outside is perhaps safer than we realize.
