“I do not understand, Monsieur. You told me our man would heighten pressure in the south. He seems to be winning.”   “Yes. He is. For now.”   The third man, silent, glared at the response. He seemed as frustrated as the tall man who raised the question. “But —“   The stocky man, seated at the table in the alcove, cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Gentlemen. Come, sit.”   The tall fellow and his angry friend shifted uncomfortably, clearly upset, as the seated man poured three glasses of wine from a bottle on the table. He gestured at the empty chairs, and the two men reluctantly took their places.   The portly chap raised his glass and toasted, “To our patron, and France!”, he quietly murmured. He paused as his two friends raised their glasses likewise. They drank, and the stocky fellow made a brief face. “Ugh. Bordeaux. No matter.” Leaning forward, he held a brief, whispered conference with his fellows. The third man scratched his chin thoughtfully, the florid color gradually leaving his face.   The stocky man leaned back, smiling mirthlessly. “So you see, mon ami, that to succeed early only sets the table for a slow crisis to build. With the King’s confidence won, our man can stay at his post to regulate the temperature of the situation; for, if he had lost or permitted significant gains by his supposed enemies, he would simply be withdrawn and replaced by partisans. I can assure you, sirs, all proceeds according to plan. Pry, return to your masters and counsel patience.”   The other two murmured their assent, then went their separate ways, leaving the portly man to finish his wine.