Chapter Five
La Malediction et Le Coup
La Maison de Monsieur Parldevent
Rue-aux-Mains-Justes
Paris, France
November 29, 1831
"Oh, Mademoiselle Apolline?"
Resisting the urge to huff and sigh, Apolline turned from the bundle of logs she was placing into Mirabelle's, currently dormant, fireplace. The other girl was lounging on a pink chaise in her room, delicately combing through her tight curls. Her smile was smug, pleased that she was in charge here, in her own domain. Fripouille was laying on the floor, his little eyes watching Apolline as she arranged the wood carefully. She hated the situation, and she had begun hating it the second Madame DeBleu had set her to it. The woman had told her she was being silly when she had asked for another task, something that didn't involve Mirabelle or the space she would most likely take up. Madame DeBleu had rolled her eyes and pushed Apolline along, telling her to get to the job and respect the family if she were to come in contact with them.
With Apolline's work paused, and her head turned to the girl, Mirabelle said, "Don't touch anything," she smiled sweetly, her eyes flaring with condescension. "I don't want anything to be dirtied."
"D'accord," Apolline replied with tight lips, trying to keep in the insults that wanted to shoot forth.
Mirabelle sighed, placing the comb gently on her beside table, saying, "Lord knows where you've been- Just look at that dirt all over you."
"It isn't dirt," Apolline snapped. "It's soot from your own fireplace, it is!"
"You'd best watch your tongue, Mademoiselle."
Apolline stared at the girl in vibrating anger.
The blonde smirked, "Wouldn't want to get sacked because of your temper, would you?"
Afraid of what she would say next, Apolline turned back to the fireplace and quickly stacked the rest of the wood, not bothering to do it carefully or neatly. She stood up to find Mirabelle looming beside her, examining her work, trying to find something to complain about. When Apolline didn't say anything, only waited for Mirabelle to move, the wealthier girl looked at her as if she had smelled something putrid.
"Don't you bathe?"
Apolline was then so impatient and frustrated, that she began to mutter a string of gypsy words together. She knew that Mirabelle would know nothing of what they truly meant, but, Apolline would make them sound menacing and mystical, and the snooty little mademoiselle would never know the difference. They were all phrases and terms that she had heard from her father, words that he had learned from his Hungarian mother during his childhood. For all she knew, she could be shouting, "Colors boy light April pirate money rain!" but, the key was to make the words sound evil, and to make Mirabelle shake in her fancy boots, without having done anything so very bad.
Along with her fervent muttering, Apolline did a nonsensical dance that she imagined would belong to a witch or a gypsy. Mirabelle watched her, her eyes confused and wide, until finally, she shrieked, "Stop it!"
"Mortoron!" Apolline shouted back with a stomp of her boot, having made this last word up off the top of her head.
For several long seconds Mirabelle stared at her, examining a smudge mark, smeared under Apolline's fine cheekbone. The young mademoiselle was trying to decode what was happening, and trying to figure out how she could get the upper-hand- the control- in the situation. But Apolline, proud as ever, stared back defiantly, blue eyes meeting amber in a stare of challenging power. Whereas, Mirabelle knew she was truly above this gamine, that she was in charge here, our Apolline wouldn't stand for it. In Apolline's mind, no one told her what to do, or mocked her, social hierarchy or not. There was no way she was going to allow this tyrannical girl to get away with spurning her, without some kind of clever punishment in return.
With her shrill voice shaking slightly, Mirabelle asked, "W-What did you just say to me?"
"Nothing."
"Do not try to play games with me, you wretch," she nearly shrieked. "Tell me what kind of street-nonsense you've said to me!"
Apolline shrugged.
She swept some soot off the wood of the floor in front of the fireplace, "Did you know ma grandmere was a gypsy, my father learned all about them from her," she mentioned off-handishly, as if she was trying to change the subject, but trying to truly tell Mirabelle something as well. "He taught me all of his gypsy spells aussi."
"W-What do I care?" Mirabelle tried to sound condescending, as she rose her chin in disdain, but Apolline could tell that the girl was having trouble not being afraid with the knowledge of gypsy spells thrown into the affair.
The gamine smiled pleasantly, "You were asking about the words I had said-"
"What kind of spell did you try to put on me, you pig of a girl?!" Mirabelle shrieked, her voice getting high and piping. "Tell me or I shall- I shall- Scalp you!" she faltered.
Apolline snorted, "Scalp me? I should like to see you try."
Mirabelle finally became so angry and frustrated with Apolline's defiant impertinence, that she lunged forward, shrieking. She grabbed a fistful of the gamine's slightly matted brown hair, pulling her cap off in the process. This was when Apolline allowed Madame DeBleu's insistence on respect to flit from her mind. With a burst of energy and a shriek of pain and anger, she pushed Mirabelle back, but the girl had such a firm hold on her hair they stumbled back together.
"Let me go, hag!" Apolline shouted, pulling at Mirabelle's own ringlets in equal defense.
A high-pitched squeal left the mademoiselle's throat, and she tried kicking at Apolline's shins, "You petite rat from the streets- Let go!"
"You started it, you did!"
Taking a sharp coup to the knee, Apolline grew even more defensive and turned round, unclasping Mirabelle's hand from her hair, and wriggling out of the girl's grasp. With fierce competition and determination, she elbowed Mirabelle in the stomach, satisfied when the girl howled in response. She took a step away, looking down at the girl, who was now clutching at her stomach, glaring at Apolline with renewed hatred.
Shaking her head, Mirabelle said, "You're a beast!" and she lunged at Apolline, knocking her completely to the floor.
Their brawl continued, and Apolline even considered biting the girl to get her away. She didn't think of Madame DeBleu, or what was proper, or the fact that she worked for the girl's father, or Fripouille, who was barking at them in confusion and defense. It wasn't even until a minute or so later, when the door had burst open, that she remembered herself at all.
"What is the meaning of this?!" a deep and rumbling voice barked from the doorway.
Mirabelle suddenly cried, "Papa! She attacked me!"
"I did what?" Apolline spat, ceasing the fight all together.
Madame DeBleu wrenched Apolline off of the girl, "Ma fille, what were you thinking?"
"Madame!" Apolline shouted, roughly adjusting her sleeve, which had nearly slipped off her shoulder. "She attacked me!"
Mirabelle hurried into an upright position, fixing her skirts before running to her father, pouting and feigning tears, working her lie to its advantage.
"Madame," Monsieur Parledevent said sternly. "If your help is going to start rounds of fighting with my own daughter, than I am not sure you, or she, are suited for this job."
Madame DeBleu implored, "Oh, Monsieur, I apologize- I apologize on behalf of Mademoiselle Apolline and myself- It was wrong, and she will be properly punished- But I beg of you monsieur, it will not happen again."
"Yes, well," he paused, looking at Apolline's defiant face with a gentle smirk. "I do not mind a lively spirit, but I do mind a lively and angry spirit against my daughter."
"It will not happen again, monsieur," the woman said again, her eyes begging him for forgiveness.
The man nodded curtly, kindly and just, ignoring Mirabelle's protestations, saying, "Be sure that it does not," he turned to Apolline and glanced at her, before telling them both it would be best to get back to work. They left the room, hearing Mirabelle complain about Apolline and Madame's not being told to leave forever.
As they neared the bottom of the landing, Madame DeBleu hissed, "What is the matter with you, ma fille?!"
"She did attack me, I tell you," Apolline replied in a fervent whisper. "It wasn't me- You can be sure-"
"What with your temper, 'Polline," the woman shook her head. "I can't be sure of anything."
Apolline watched as the woman walked down the stairs but, she, herself, stayed at the landing.
Madame DeBleu called back up, "You've the temperament of a bird, you have."
La Maison du Compte de Montremart
Rue-Saint-Augustine-la-Pere
Paris, France
November 29, 1831
On her way home from the Parledevents, Apolline walked down the rue-Saint-Augustine-la-Pere, and passed the lavish home of the Compte de Montremart. He was a young man, and a bit of a dandy, as everyone knew. He openly gambled and bet all of his money in card games, and wasted all of the rest on women. It was the talk of the plein air markets that the new compte, who had only gained his title six months prier, was going to lose his money before his twenty-first birthday. Everyday, on her way to the Parledevent household, she passed the Compte's house, simply because it was the fastest way she knew to go, and she thought nothing of it anymore. Sometimes she saw the Compte coming or go, sometimes with women, sometimes drunk, sometimes sullen from losing money, sometimes jubilant from winning money- sometimes, strangely enough, all four. Whatever the happenings of the Compte were, Apolline found she was not surprised by any of it anymore, but, as she walked toward the house, she saw a familiar man standing outside, looking around suspiciously, and it made her slow her pace.
Standing just outside the steps of the Compte's home, was a man with fading hair, worried eyes, and slightly dirtied clothes. His wrinkled face looked even more creased as he glanced around in fear and anxiety. Apolline was aware that she knew him. He was from Sous-Ma'nette. Plamondon- the only member who didn't detest her.
As she walked slowly past, their eyes met, but he looked away quickly. Inappropriately taking this as her invitation to speak with him, Apolline tromped forward.
"Monsieur Plamondon," she said, teasing him with an accusatory tone. "What are you doing a la maison du Monsieur Compte?"
The man looked nearly surprised to see her speaking to him, "Ah- Mademoiselle Apolline- I'm just waiting here."
"Pour qui?"
"Eh-Ah- Your father..."
Apolline's eyes widened a little, "My father? What is he doing at the home of le Compte? Is he in trouble?
"I do not believe so-"
"What's this about then?" she asked. "My father and le Compte are not friends, they're not."
Plamondon looked anxious, "I am not sure if I ought to tell you Mademoiselle-"
"It's plain old Apolline, it is- I'm no mademoiselle," she told him sternly, confidently, as if she was declaring herself queen.
He nodded amiably, but impatiently, "You really should go on home."
"Pourquoi?" she asked saucily, putting a hand on her hip. "Is Papa stealing again?"
The man shushed her quickly, "Mademoiselle- Apolline- keep your voice down-"
"He is, isn't he?" she shook her head. "That rat-"
"He's not- Not this time- Not right now-"
Apolline eyed the man, cutting him off, "Are you pulling my leg, Mondon?"
"Mondon?"
"That's what I've decided to call you, I have," she smiled.
He couldn't help but smirk a little, trying not to lose the seriousness of the situation, "He's not stealing right now- He's only talking avec le Compte about a card game," he whispered.
"A card game?" she reiterated, confused. "Is he all that desperate to play with the man?"
"I suppose so," Mondon said quickly.
Apolline shook her head, "What's the trick-"
"There is no trick, really," he said, looking around, afraid again. "You really ought to go on-"
"Plamondon, my friend," her father said happily as he left the house and began to descend the stairs. "We've got- Eh- What's this?" he stopped and asked when he reached the two.
Mondon cleared his throat, "This is your daughter, Eustache-"
"I know who it is," he rolled his eyes. "I'm asking you what in the name of God she's doing here-"
"Have I ruined your plan to rob le Compte, Papa?" she asked with a smirk.
He looked around, making sure no one had heard, "'Polline, you shut up or else I'll-"
"Or else you'll what?" she put her hands on her hips. "Hit me?"
'That's exactly what I'll do," he said, and for some reason, though his tone was menacing, she felt like they were joking.
She rolled her eyes goodnaturedly, "I won't come home."
His happy mood had now been replaced by a sour one, all because Apolline wanted to be petulant and witty in his eyes, "Je vais donner un coup maintenant!" he snarled.
"Ha!" she laughed. "You would-"
SMACK! and he slapped her right across the face, in front of the Compte de Montremart's home.
So stunned by this turn of events, Apolline stalled. She had been hit by her father before, but never so suddenly, and never when she thought they were joking. Her father glared at her and took Plamondon by the shoulder, steering him away from her as she stood by the stairs, a hand pressed to her cheek. Plamondon glanced back at her, over his shoulder, as her father talked excitedly, already having forgotten the hit, but Mondon looked worried. Apolline did not notice his brief concern. She swallowed. When she got home her mother would fret over her and scold her father for hitting one of their girls, but he would not listen. There would be periods, over the course of the night, where her mother would tend to her few guests, and then move about in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning, but tutting over Apolline with words of tough love. For now, Apolline began to walk down the street, dazed and out of sorts, trying to shake herself from the surprise of the coup. She contemplated not returning home, thought about just staying under the bridge for the night, but the wind was too sharp, biting too hard for a night outside.
And as she walked, she wondered, if, like her dream, she did have a bird-heart, making her talk and act in flutters of thoughtlessness.