Post by RENÉE LAGOSSE on Sept 2, 2015 17:17:24 GMT
Paris was always dirty. Renée sometimes thought the city resembled one of those over-the-hill harlots, with messy hair and blackened teeth stumps, too much powder and rouge covering up the spots and blotches on her face, her skin yellow from some untreated disease, coughing up spit and baring her teeth at anyone who dared to come too close to her pitch. Her shrill voice was the sound of the streets, the crates and rags in the alleys the tattered clothes covering her bony body. Greasy, sleazy, too loud and too vain, instilling revulsion and not trust, and yet she gave you what you needed and deep inside you knew you couldn't live without her.
But even harlots had their good and their bad days. And when it rained, she had her worst days. For Parisean rain was not simply water from the sky, every drop was out to sneak under your skin and add one more layer of chill to your bones. If you didn't call a roof over your head your own, then rain meant cold and hunger. People were not sauntering by, mesmerized by the vain overlay the city coated her black spots with, so they would not notice you picking their pockets. The better-to-do kept their windows closed and their chimneys crackling with fire and smoke, so there was no sneaking in to snatch their belongings. When it rained for days on end, the sewers overflowed and spilled into the catacombes. Renée had seen friends lose their lives down there as they had been swept away by an unexpected tidal wave of sewage in their sleep.
She had stayed underground for two days, but now the hunger had driven her to the surface, along with Edmond, Pierre and the others. They had spread over the whole town center in a desperate attempt to take something home. It would soon be dark and all Renée had managed to nick was a handkerchief. And to make things worse, the piece of cloth bore initials, which would make it so much harder to sell. These last few days certainly hadn't been hers.
And yet, Renée leaned relaxedly against a ramshackle wooden stall that belonged to some quiche-cook, a trilling whistle on her lips as if nothing in the world was wrong. Her eyes might tell the story of hunger and cold, but only if you looked close. Edmond had taught her that you should never let people see how bad off you were, because Pityless Paris would rather kick you down further than aid you. Only the strong survived, those that showed neither fear nor weakness.
Now, if only those quiches were a little closer to reach... and didn't smell so darn good!
But even harlots had their good and their bad days. And when it rained, she had her worst days. For Parisean rain was not simply water from the sky, every drop was out to sneak under your skin and add one more layer of chill to your bones. If you didn't call a roof over your head your own, then rain meant cold and hunger. People were not sauntering by, mesmerized by the vain overlay the city coated her black spots with, so they would not notice you picking their pockets. The better-to-do kept their windows closed and their chimneys crackling with fire and smoke, so there was no sneaking in to snatch their belongings. When it rained for days on end, the sewers overflowed and spilled into the catacombes. Renée had seen friends lose their lives down there as they had been swept away by an unexpected tidal wave of sewage in their sleep.
She had stayed underground for two days, but now the hunger had driven her to the surface, along with Edmond, Pierre and the others. They had spread over the whole town center in a desperate attempt to take something home. It would soon be dark and all Renée had managed to nick was a handkerchief. And to make things worse, the piece of cloth bore initials, which would make it so much harder to sell. These last few days certainly hadn't been hers.
And yet, Renée leaned relaxedly against a ramshackle wooden stall that belonged to some quiche-cook, a trilling whistle on her lips as if nothing in the world was wrong. Her eyes might tell the story of hunger and cold, but only if you looked close. Edmond had taught her that you should never let people see how bad off you were, because Pityless Paris would rather kick you down further than aid you. Only the strong survived, those that showed neither fear nor weakness.
Now, if only those quiches were a little closer to reach... and didn't smell so darn good!
