Chapter Four: A Chaste Harlot

No earthly words in any form or language could justly describe the horrors that faced Christine as she stepped out of the carriage with shaking limbs.

"Are you sure this is where you want to be?" the driver asked her, his voice tinged with doubt and concern. Christine barely heard him, as her mind and eyes were desperately trying to process her surroundings.

"Mademoiselle?" He inquired again. "This doesn't look like a place a woman like yourself should be…"

"Yes. Thank you. I will be fine." She responded with as much confidence as she could muster, although barely convincing through a small, trembling voice. He rolled his eyes and gave a "suit yourself" look before calling to his horses to move the carriage forward, leaving Christine standing in the middle of the darkest part of Paris. Lingering behind the walls of a noisy brothel, she avidly watched the man she stalked dismount his horse and walk into a large, run-down, stone building that was situated directly over a section of the city sewer. With a thin wall as the only barrier between herself and the brothel, she could hear every moan and each bed rattle from inside of the dingy building. She blushed heavily.

Her nose and eyes burned from the painful stench and sulfur fumes which rose from the ground. The structure had no windows, only small openings covered in heavy cast-iron bars. The sounds emitted from the large building were deafening as well as frightening - screams and moans; hysterical laughter; cries of pain. Never in her sheltered life had Christine ever witnessed such a daunting sight. It was now completely dark, except for scattered lanterns set high above the cobblestone streets. There were people of all ages huddled next to each other in the alleyways for warmth, their shallow breaths visible in the frigid night air. Prostitutes lined the streets, waiting desperately in shabby bustiers and cheap, gaudy jewelry for business with any customer who paid. Many feigned smiles to male passer-bys just moments before coughing deeply into a handkerchief stained with blood, a tell-tale sign of the deadly plight of tuberculosis.

Christine pulled the heavy wool cloak tightly over her chest as tiny, white flecks of snow began to dance from the infinite night sky, dusting her head and eyelashes. Suddenly a loud commotion from inside the brothel made her skin jump. There were sounds of bottles crashing and yelling, followed by the door directly in front of her flying open. A girl no older than fourteen staggered out of the uproar and fell onto the cold, hard ground at Christine's feet. Devilish laughter roared from the whorehouse, yet Christine could only hear the girl's muted cries. She kneeled to help the young women from the ground. Sadness struck her as she looked into the sweet face - a face that looked like so many of the other young ballerinas she had danced with at the opera populaire. Yet this face was pasty and bruised already from years of drinking and abuse, her cheeks and lips smeared with dark rouge.

"Are you alright? Here - let me help you…" But the moment her hand touched the younger girl's arm, she jumped up from in front of Christine, breathing heavily as she made her distance from the strange woman.

"Please, I don't want to hurt you. Won't you let me help you?" The girl gripped what little clothing she had tightly to her skin to conceal the bruises that covered her arms. After shaking her head firmly, causing tears to cascade down her cheeks, she turned to go back inside of the clamorous room. Christine looked after her with despair, then another thought suddenly rushed into her head. She practically ran in front of the small figure to block her entrance into back into the brothel.

"Wait! Please…if you will not let me help you, would you not help me? Please." Met with another frightened look, Christine knew that she needed to speak quickly. "Can you tell me what that building is over - over there?" She pointed to the ominous structure across the street where the mysterious man had entered, still keeping eye contact with the timid creature in front of her. The girl cocked her head slightly, confused.

"It is some type of prison, mum." She lowered her eyes, finding it impossible to look into the face of purity and perfection. "It's where they put the insane and the very darkest of souls."

"Is there any way to get inside?" Christine questioned desperately, completely unaware that she had grabbed a small white hand in front of her, clutching it tightly. The young prostitute looked at her as if she were speaking a different language. "Inside?"

"Yes. Please - I must know."

There was silence for a few moments. "No there isn't. The only people who can go inside are the guards and the inmates."

"No one else then?"

"No, mum. Well, there have been a few of us girls who were desperate, you know, for food and such, and went inside to pleasure the guards, but not me. They don't come out the same way they go in." She shook her head sadly. "But why would a fine lady like yourself want to be anywhere near there?" Her eyes sparkled only briefly as she looked up and down at Christine's elegant clothing, obviously made from the finest and most expensive material. "That place is condemned."

Christine contemplated her remark. It was true - her appearance stuck out in this place like a rose among a garden of wilted, dying flowers. What am I walking into? Yet her heart seemed to be screaming to her what her mind could not comprehend. She had to get into that wretched place and prove to herself what no one else could.

"My reasons are my own. Now tell me, what is your name?"

"M-Marie." The girl finally took an outward breath as she wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing her painted eyes and cheeks.

"Marie," Christine said, enclosing the girls other hand in her own as well. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes momentarily. Oh,God, give me strength! "Would you find me something…else to wear if I gave you my own clothes, and this?" Reaching into her side, she removed 50 francs and closed them into the other set of cold hands.

Marie could not prevent her mouth from gaping at the question - or the great deal of money resting in her palm. There was no way she could resist such an offer, even from such an obviously demented woman. Without asking another question, she took the roll of bills and stuffed it inside of her cleavage.

"Come with me."