| The girl stumbled to the side of the dirt path and wretched. The German looked on in obvious disgust. “Is she always like this?” his robust voice directed itself to a tiny, ferret like Frenchman. “Only when her crimes are as heinous as those which she has just committed. The poor innocent soul has little stomach for such-,” A particularly loud moan interrupted the man’s lament as the girl clutched her stomach in pain. The German’s face contorted at the sight momentarily, and then focused back on the small man before him. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like my hal-,” “Oooh the Agony,” the girl whimpered suddenly, one slow tear falling from her cheek. The ferret like man swiftly sidled along side her, stroking her back and looking awkwardly comforting. “My dear poor girl,” he cried to the heavens, “Bless her O Lord, relieve-,” A particularly loud moan escaped from the condemned and the German looked away, obviously feeling a little queasy himself. |
| Her body began to wrack again with sickness and the little man once again leaned over to pat her on the back. “If you don’t mind,” the German said, loudly, steadily, and turning slightly green, “My half, please.” |
| The Frenchman glanced at him blankly for a moment, and then sighed. “Yes…I suppose in even this harsh times, one must always revert back to monetary-,” The girl suddenly stood up, startling him off balance, and glared at the monstrosity before her. The German was far over six foot tall. The ferret stayed put in the mud. |
| “Sir,” she murmured, making a slow curtsey and retrieving coins from a purse hidden deep in skirts, “your…your…ha-,” and doubled over in sickness that caressed deep brown leather boots. The German himself began to double over and, clutching his mouth, ran the opposite direction. |
| She remained hunched, keenly watching him until he was out of eyesight and immediately straightened up, wiped her mouth, and fixed a glare on the small man in the mud. “I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to talk. Ever. Again,” she said matter of factly, smoothed her skirts, and brushed past him. “You could help me up,” he protested as he pushed himself off of the dirty ground. She merely raised an eyebrow. |
| “A stunning performance, I might add,” he continued, quickening his step to match hers. “You should renounce this life of crime and move into something honest, like acting,” he said grinning. She shrugged, gracefully and catlike. “If I’m going to get arrested, at least let it be for something challenging. Although the piece of work we did today was a far cry from that,” she said with a large and sudden grin. “Not that I mind.” |
| They entered the bustling gates of Paris along with a burly man, a cart full of chickens, and a large coach. Inside they were immediately surrounded by the intense clamor of horse hoofs beating on cobblestone, children screaming, merchants shouting, metal being sharpened from a near by blacksmith, and far off gypsy pipes. He watched her pause momentarily, her large eyes immediately absorbing every last detail surrounding her. She always did this as they entered, and, as usual, sighed heavily, looked down and back again, and swiftly proceeded. He ambled to catch up. |
| They strode in silence through the usual procedure, drawing several mazes through the alleyways of deep Paris, changing each right to left, and left to right every day so no one could follow them. The tall houses of Paris closed in on them as they approached the darker part of town, and as they circled their last route, he coughed, startling her. “You can’t even give me the plague quietly, can you?” she muttered. |
| “You didn’t notice my new outfit,” he said cockily, and seemingly out of nowhere. She immediately stopped, looked him up and down quickly, and then resumed her walking. “Looks exactly the same to me.” “Look again,” he said with a condescending grin. Sighing with immense irritation, she once again stopped and checked, this time catching a few stray glints from the setting sun. A catlike grin appeared on her face. “Very well done.” “I like them myself,” he said, admiring the German’s golden boot clasps. |
| They resumed their walking, with not a little added strut in his stride. He was ten times the thief she was, he reminded himself as his hips began to sway a little more. Yet he humbled himself to keep her around, after all, she was an excellent actress, and not incredibly bad to look at. Not bad to look at at all, though no beauty. |
| They were reaching the passageway to the Court. Yes, he thought once again, he being so talented that he didn’t need her at all, but poor thing that she was, he allowed her to walk around with him, to make herself look good. He was a charitable man. “Ow!” she said, as his hips bumped into her from intense swaggering. |
| “Tremendously sorry my little-,” She glared at him as she climbed into the catacombs. He quickly followed her down and she raced through the darkness. He had only joined the band a few months ago, and, being of relatively poor and low stature on the social ladder of both Parisians and gypsies, was basically left to fend for himself on all walks of life, the catacombs to the Court of Miracles being the hardest. |
| He jogged a little to keep up. She had to prove herself somehow, he realized, to save face after his stunning display earlier and return herself into his favor. After all, she probably realized how dependant she was on his talented person. He allowed her her little race, and although he was severely winded as they both entered his tent, she standing in a corner and he plopping down on several tattered coushins while mopping his brow, he was certain that he had won this little mind game. |
| “So,” he said grandly, gesturing to a companion coushin, “Care to rest awhile?” He put on his most dashing grin. She gave him an odd look, and then quickly broke out into a dazzling smile. “Of course.” She seated herself gracefully, and arranged her skirts coyly. He grinned again. As usual, she was putty in his hands. He always had a way with women. He moved a little closer, as she watched him from lowered lashes, and suddenly looked deep into his eyes. The quick flash of intense green made him feel uncomfortable, and he shifted as she lazily grinned again and looked away. He quickly regained his composure. |
| “So, my daring partner in crime, shall we have another go tomorrow?” he asked cavalierly, reaching an arm around her shoulders. She laughed merrily, an unfamiliar but pretty sound, and replied with a lighthearted “but of course!” He had her. She quickly turned back to him, and, her nose an inch away from his, whispered, “I’m looking forward to it,” and with a sly wink twisted out of his grasp and was on her feet in one quick movement. |
| She turned to go and his arm shot out and gripped hers like a vice. “My half, if you don’t mind,” he said, his fingers tightening around her wrist. She smiled again. “It slipped my mind,” and shrugging, tossed him a bag of coins. He looked at her, and while keeping a firm grasp, reached in to count them. All there. “What do you take me for, a thief?” she scoffed, and, with a quick grin, returned to pouting. She snatched her arm away and stormed out of his tent. |
| He picked his money up and secured it in his tunic. He had outsmarted her again. Patting his money, he once again congratulated himself on the wonder that was Jaques. “Nope, no feminine wiles can tempt the great thief of Paris,” he said reclining, resting his feet on the makeshift crate that was his table. He continued to ramble, “I had her from-,” and quickly stopped as his eye fell on his feet, and the absence of golden shoe buckles. |
| She triumphantly slapped two golden shoe buckles hard on the worn oak of his counter. “Melt ‘em,” she said with a large, side ways grin. A tiny sound came from a near by cat. The portly, middle-aged man looked up slowly from his smoldering and gave a little laugh. “And how are we today Catelyn?” Her green eyes gleamed. “I’m about to find out aren’t I?” He chuckled, and bit into a buckle. Solid gold, yet small. 2 francs at the most. He continued to examine them. |
| “How’re Becca and those two lovely girls?” she asked as she lazily leaned against the counter. “Very well, and as difficult as ever,” he said warmly. He was fully aware that she was going out of her way to flatter him, as she did every time. He didn’t mind. He continued to look at the gold. |
| “I’d say they’re worth about….8,” he said slowly, appearing to examine the small, glinting things with care. More like 1 franc, he mused to himself. He looked at her, her cat like grin ever widening. |
| She had once mentioned that she been living there for almost 9 years, and he wondered at how she was still an outcast in a swarm of outcasts. The whispers he heard had never thought she was beautiful, her skin was always a little to pale, her accent a little to thick, her eyes a little too disconcerting. Few trusted her, and fewer befriended her. She seemed to care less. He felt sorry for her. As always, his eyes fell on her rags, and he was reminded of his own daughter. |
| “I’ll be generous today,” he said, doing his best to look pained, “10 francs.” Her eyes glittered. “Cheating me again I see,” she laughed. Her hands were slightly trembling as she grasped the coins. He blinked and they were gone. He knew she thought he was an old fool who could be easily swindled out of his money. He let her believe it, as long as she would eat better tonight. |
| “Nice doing business with you Tom,” she said happily, and danced off, her small cat trailing between her legs. He shook his head and went back to business. |
| She loved Tom. No. She loved her ten francs. But Tom gave her the ten francs. She laughed to herself as she collapsed in the heap of ratty blankets she called her bed. Patches leapt onto her stomach and nuzzled her neck, making her giggle harder. Ahh life. |
| He hated this damn puppet. He hated this damn stone fountain he was sitting on. He hated this damn city. |
| He sat with black eyes glaring at the ram shackled wagon that housed what he called a profession and pondered when exactly he had begun to enjoy pulling tattered blankets over his head and pretending it was never day. Sunlight did little to ease the dread settling in his feet as they stamped on each cobblestone worn with footsteps that trampled them every day; unrelenting, unforgiving, and full of lead and loathing. He was in a truly deadly mood. |
| It was bad enough that he was a puppeteer. When his late father the esteemed Pierre Jacques Ingrious Francis Troullifou III had badgered him unrelentingly about taking up merely the semblance of an honorable profession, he had jumped at the chance, having just won a small cart in a raucous game of cards. The work had seemed all right; it required a minimal amount of effort and the ability to poke fun at authority without getting arrested. Too often. The only drastic drawback was simple. He hated children. |
| The previous scene played itself in his mind once again, much to his annoyance. |
| “I don’t want to hear another about the death of the toad!” screamed a dirty, blonde haired little girl. The baby dressed in rags being held by the small boy next to her began to wail. |
| He eyed the small franc clasped in the tiny grubby hands and sighed. “What would like you to hear, Mms.?” he said graciously, and with a little bow. |
| “The one about the tall, scrawny man with little or no talent,” remarked a sarcastic student in passing. |
| He grimaced. “I don’t wanna hear about it!” The little girl screamed again, while the younger boy with the baby silently stared on. “Of course Mms. What would you like to hear?” he tried again, replacing a ratty green puppet with a more brightly colored one. |
| “Really!” a woman dressed in several layers of rich purple satin sniffed. “To let children listen to a scoundrel such as this. Appalling!” She stalked away as the silent boy began to sniffle. |
| “How does a thrilling story about a purple cow sound?!” he exclaimed to the children, quite loudly. The little girl on impulse threw the coin at his head, sending herself into screeching laughter. He snapped. |
| “Do you know what happened to the poor toad in the next story?” he wickedly asked the giggling little girl. She paused and stared at him. “The tall puppeteer crawled to her house late one night, and cut off all of her pretty blonde hair, smothered her with a pillow, and-“ |
| “You horrible man!” screeched the formerly absent mother, covered in flour and hair disheveled. “I’ll have you thrown off these streets for good you…you…gypsy trash!” she screamed as she pulled her children away from his wrath. The little girl stuck out her tongue. |
| He remained fuming, sitting at the edge of the fountain with a green mass of rags on his hand. An old, scrawny, toothless woman collapsed next to him. He sighed and began flipping his lonely franc in the air. |
| “Bonjour.” her voice rasped like twigs sliding across stone. “Mind if I sit here?” He shook his head slightly and continued watching the coin. The woman smiled to herself and slowly tapped a foot beneath tattered dress and shawl. “Know how to milk a cow?” she suddenly asked with a gaping grin. He missed the coin and stared at her as it jangled on the street. |
| “Well,” she said matter of factly at his silence, “you take the nipples, just like so, and you squeeze,” she moved her hands in gesture. He simply nodded, and eyes wide, retrieved his coin and continued flipping. |
| “You know how to kill a chicken?” The coin once again bounced away. He sighed in annoyance as he retrieved it. “You cut its head off,” he snapped. The old woman cackled wildly. “And then?” “And then you pluck it dry.” He said, harsh and sarcastic. The woman cackled again and clapped her hands. “Good….Good,” she grinned toothlessly. |
| He sighed through gritted teeth and looked away, pocketing the coin. She edged closer. “You’re cute, are you married?” He froze. “Are you?” she asked again, nudging him. “No Mms. I promise you I am not.” He shuddered in exasperation and slight terror. |
| He face brightened momentarily, yet as she let her eyes wander it absurdly fell. “But there is your wife,” she quietly said as she sighed heavily, and he, in all his irritation, could not help but look in the direction in which she was gazing. He focused on a thin girl with jet-black hair, lazily leaning over Tom’s counter, feline grin identical to the small cat twisting around her ankles. He looked back to the crone. “Madam I assure you, I have never seen that woman before in my life.” |
| The woman’s head snapped back at him, and she laughed her maniacal cackle, stood up, and hobbled off. He looked back at his ‘wife’, who was gracefully moving away through the crowded streets. “Crazy old hag,” he muttered to himself as he fingered the small silver ring he had taken from her to console himself. |
| He hated this damn place. |