AN: I don't own any of the Victor Hugo's characters, whether they are dead or alive. I don't own the streets of Paris either. The only thing I do own here is Madame Beauchamp...lucky me.
Madame Beauchamp walked briskly down the city street with an air of utter disdain, her dainty shoes clicking against the grimy cobblestone.
She was quite pleased with herself; this fact was apparent to all who happened to pass her by. Nose stuck toward the grayish midday sky, shoulders drawn back, little huffs of breath escaping her lips at intervals. And why shouldn't she be pleased with herself? Madame Beauchamp was a respectable citizen of Paris. She lived in a respectable house with her respectable husband. What more could one want?
Despite the pleasure this good lady took in her own state of being, she was not, however, pleased with her current surroundings. Madame Beauchamp was making one of her frequent visits to the dress shop. Although she loved the thrill of a new dress, the walk there was really quite dull. The poor Madame was forced to trek through the working class sections of the city. Working class indeed, thought she. If these lazy drunks were really putting in their share then I wouldn't be swatting their good-for-nothing children away from my purse.
As Madame Beauchamp turned the corner, she let out yet another exasperated huff. A dainty, ladylike huff, she reminded herself. There was a great deal more junk littering the street than usual. And that was saying something. Torn flags, guns, lumps of clothing in the distance, and quite a lot of piled up wood. Was that blood as well? How people tolerated this mess was simply beyond Madame Beauchamp.
If one were to observe the proud woman flouncing her way down the street, they would have seen her pick her way over bits of wood, frown at discarded weapons and bits of fabric. They would also have seen her halt abruptly and stare, upturned nose and rigid posture completely forgotten.
For the lumps of clothing contained people, or rather what used to be people. Their bullet-riddled and blood-soaked bodies lined shoulder-to-shoulder. Being a delicate lady, Madame Beauchamp willed herself to look away from this ghastly sight but she found this to be utterly impossible.
So young, she thought, they're all so young. The one on the end was nearly half the size of the others; he couldn't be older than ten. With a pang she recognized him as the little gamine who's pickpocketing attempt she had thwarted several weeks ago. She remembered him gesturing obscenely as he scampered away from her calls for police. Yet here he was, cold, peaceful, innocent...
Madame Beauchamp shook her head, attempting to rid herself of the cloud covering her recent thoughts were experiencing. Obviously all these boys did something terribly wrong. Break the law, suffer the consequences. It's only fair, she thought. Nose and shoulders back in their rightful places, she marched forward once again.
The Madame's composure was thwarted once again several steps later when a glint of gold caught her eye. She turned to see a particularly bloody young man with golden curls framing his stony face. Her thoughts unwillingly turned to Etienne, who was currently off at boarding school. How those youthful blond curls reminded her of him. Had they known each other perhaps? This boy must be around his age. So young.
Madame Beauchamp quickly snapped her head up, glancing around her. How long had she been standing there idle? There was no time for a respectable lady to dawdle here gazing at corpses; it was simply indecent. She had far too much to accomplish that day. The Madame resumed her determined walk to the dress shop; thankfully, despite her momentary loss of focus, the day was still young.
So young...
