Disclaimer: I do not own anything - except my own character.
If someone had ever asked her how she came to be, she would have answered quite plainly from the gutter. If she indeed had a mother and father, she did not know it. The memories of her childhood were embedded in the streets she treaded upon. She had no parents, no friends, only rivals and competition. The only lesson life ever taught her was how to fight. She was an unruly, unwanted child who simply grew into an uncontrollable young woman. Constantly fleeting, the wild owned her. Like some foreign entity, she could not stay long within civilization, and would take flight for days. No one truly knew her. But no one wished to know a gamin.
She was an expert at playing the streets, playing people, acting as if she had had a great education. Her education was in being the charming charlatan. Such children – for although they appear to have an adult demeanor, are in fact youngsters – swindle money as if it was their business, always have clothes, always have food to eat. Of course, the money is only a few sous, the clothes ragged, and the food old. The children are talented, for they know exactly how to support themselves given such materials to work with. Better off society did not like her type, finding gamin to be like the black rat – but a few did hold a little pity within their chests to spare a sou, a coat, a croissant. Yet the tension between two completely different castes continued to exist.
She had simply wandered into Montreuil-sur-mer. One winter she just set out from Paris and kept walking, kept acting the perfect pretender. She left the heart of the country and ventured into the lung. With no home to return to, no one to care for her, for her to care about, she settled in at once, late 1812. She had been a rotten child, and as such, a greedy young woman. She constantly yearned for a few cool francs against her palm. When she could not earn enough to satisfy through pity, she stole. When she could not earn enough to satisfy through thievery, she converted to prostitution. Like an unpredictable maelstrom, greed will always ensnare a person in its endless cycle. Such went the disappointing life of Genevieve Chastain.
"Monsieur," she snapped one morning, "I believe you owe me money."
The man, a middle class mercantilist attempting to make a living on his own, eyed her stonily. He pursed his lips, and crossed his arms over his blue vest. Stiffly, as if he had to force himself to procure the francs from his pocket, he threw the silver coins across the bed. "Take these and get out."
She collected the money like an excited bird searching for grain, picked up her parasol, and fled the room. The man watched her go, shaking his head as he lit a cigarette.
Most mornings began in the same manner, and to Genevieve, if a morning did not start with impassive business, she was not working hard enough. Although she loathed the work, she found she made the most money from indecency. But no one had ever taught her the work was indecent. She loathed the work because she never found the suitors agreeable. To use a childish term, most were ugly. After the morning dealings, she would venture down to a little café.
"Bonjour, beau."
She glanced up from the little pastry she had been nibbling on. "Leave me alone."
The sultry greeting had come from a slim young man. She had seen the boy a few times at the café, with him approaching her with a wide smile each time. He was wearing the same smile. "Why are you so cold to me, Genevieve?" He pleaded gently.
She turned her head away, for she could not admit she actually cared for the stranger. She was cold to him because she did not want to make yet another client of the boy. "Because I do not know you," she replied sharply. "Why must I be nice to you?"
The young man frowned, dissatisfied by her answer. "Maybe if you got to know me, you would be more inclined to friendliness."
She slapped some money on the table and stood. "I am not sure about that, monsieur."
Then she left the café, left the young man once again desolate and aching. She did not know him, and yet he knew a world of information concerning her. He was not a stalker, nor a danger, only a young man completely infatuated with a cruel working woman. He should have hated her, and yet he could do no more than curse under his breath at himself. To do better next time – the goal was always the same, and yet never truly attainable. He wished to follow her, continue his loving pesters. But, he was young and had no premise to continuously harass her and was actually quite intimidated.
Out on the warm street, in the breeze, Genevieve aimlessly strolled. Her white parasol rested against her shoulder, her gaze never dropping to the concrete. Brought up a gamin, she had adopted a voluptuous amount of confidence. The young woman had an iron will and a confidence which could never be cracked. She also had dexterous fingers – on a hand so dainty and innocent – which she often employed. Coming across a cluster of bright colored skirts, she easily saw an opportunity to earn a few shimmering coins. All she had to do was bump into one of the chirping women, ignore their surprised gasps, and take the fat purse one had been stupidly clutching. Normally a swift process, Genevieve was never deterred by being found out. The women were probably bourgeoisie, so what would one missing purse mean?
In a fluster of skirts, Genevieve grabbed the plush bag, only to have two gloved hands grasp her wrist in return.
"Thief!" The woman cried. "Give me back my purse!"
Shocked at the outcome, Genevieve instantly took flight. She clutched both the purse and her skirts and started down the street. She could hear the woman struggling after her.
"Stop thief! Help! Help! Please – she has my purse!"
If only Genevieve had the time to turn around and walk back up to the woman, how she wished to slap her. But she continued to push herself, to run, faster, faster, faster. She dropped the parasol without a second thought. When she could no longer hear the woman's incessant whining, she stopped to catch her breath. She looked up and saw two large gendarmes running toward her. She paled, turned on her heel, and began to flee like a lamb who feels the pressure of being cornered. Genevieve had only gotten fifteen feet before a mob of civilians grabbed her. She gave a yelp and dropped the purse.
The gendarmes arrived shortly, instantly binding her wrists. The purse was safely returned to the woman, who glared at Genevieve with a deep-seated scowl. Genevieve had only enough time to look away before the gendarmes hauled her down the street. The citizens of Montreuil leered as if she was some visiting circus act, but she held her head high. One old man spit at her. A mother pulled her child away as the spectacle passed. Genevieve pulled at the metal trusses angrily, only to have one of the gendarmes give her a rough shove.
"Come on, you wretch," one of the gendarmes complained. "You have enough strikes against you to take you to Toulon."
Genevieve stopped pulling. "Monsieur, you are a liar."
"Shut up!" The other answered. "Just wait until we deliver you to the inspector!"
She gave a start. Anyone in Montreuil-sur-mer knew the police force. Not because the citizens were noble, honest and fanatic about the law – almost all the very opposite – but because the inspector made their presence boldly known. To be taken to the inspector was a prominent happening in Montreuil. The inspector was respected because he was feared.
It seems when panicked, the nervous tend to have two main options. The first being to babble away aimlessly like a drowning man clutching to a support, the second to shroud oneself in complete silence. Genevieve chose the latter, for such pompousness would never allow otherwise. Yet silence is very rarely peaceful, and she soon found herself utterly flustered. Unable to unleash the anxiety, the pleas, the curses, she simply brooded quietly like a steaming pot capped off with a lid.
As for the men and women who saw the unfortunate soul that day, they later said, in a low whisper, "I saw the most hideous sight today. I saw two gendarmes carrying a young woman who looked ready to boil."