It couldn't be true. Alonso simply couldn't fathom it.
Why would she steal them? He asked himself first. But he caught his thoughts before they spiraled into chaos. It didn't matter how she had gotten them that should have been foremost on his mind, but to what purpose they had first been acquired. She couldn't seriously wish to use dogs for a fur coat. It was disgusting to him on first consideration.
But their spots truly were like no other. Before Alonso could even let his heart tease his thoughts towards forgiveness he chastised them. What kind of monstrous woman could willingly murder innocent animals for the sake of fashion?
Cruella DeVil.
Of course she was capable. She had brutally killed a suffering dove as a girl for its feathers. And who knows what other killings she had performed by her own hands during her father's hunting parties.
But in that moment Alonso couldn't hate her. He simply couldn't. Alonso understood how revolutionary those spots had been flashed before Cruella DeVil's eyes. Having seen every fabric, print, sample and swatch he understood why she had stopped in her tracks that morning in front of Anita Campbell-Green's desk. Having seen so many stripes, specks, blots, leopard prints and patterns so symmetrical in their form on the skins that the haphazard, careless placement of spots on the white skin of a Dalmatian had broken all preconceived ideas of spots Cruella DeVil had known. No, he realized, they simply couldn't be replicated on linen, or cotton, or even silk. Fur, and the fur from the very dogs themselves, was the only medium that would retain the startling, original pattern.
Alonso found the strength to stand. He looked at the open door where Cruella had departed moments before. He felt an overwhelming helplessness overcome him. For all he knew, the poor creatures could be dead already. Alonso mourned despite his heart already been burdened with the heartbreak he had faced from Cruella DeVil herself.
Yet he had never mourned for the hundreds of minks, foxes, rabbits, chinchillas Cruella DeVil had ordered by the month, or even the white tiger she had been so delighted to receive just weeks before. Alonso had knowingly detached himself from recalling their once lively, feral majesty. Alonso realized nothing but being forced to live in this industry for two years, day in and day out, could make a man truly become desensitized to the casual brutality. And even then, Alonso couldn't help but recall the radiant, at times girlish smile of Cruella whenever she acquired a new and rare fur. She was so exquisitely beautiful when she was happy. Only looking now, Alonso wished she could be so pleased from an altogether different source. From what women he had known in his life, a gift deserving of such a smile was a new piece of jewelry, or a bouquet of flowers, or whatever other token of affection lovers exchange during their courtship.
When did it happen? Alonso asked. When did the moment of happiness register in Lenora DeVille's mind to affix itself permanently to such an irregular token; and one which in its very creature was devoid of all human tenderness and sympathy? When did her heart find a mistakenly unholy object to devote the focus of her worship?
It couldn't be irreversible. Alonso at once began to lift pieces of Cruella DeVil's wardrobe from the floor. He needed to focus on anything to distract him from his anxiety. He opened the suit jacket between his hands, lifting it and jerking it quickly down through the air to remove any creases or improper folds. It was a long jacket with side closures closed with hooks and accented with a white waving collar which spread across the bodice. He lifted the matching skirt, brushing it down with his hands as he observed the light bounce off of the folds from the top of the waistband. Cruella DeVil's clothing, despite its often stark and aggressive presence when worn, was so beautiful and feminine despite the dark colors. He attributed this to the impeccable fit. She had always ensured even in the darkest, most modest item of clothing that that it yield to every curve of her short, pear shaped frame. Alonso walked over to the left side of her double closets; the left being reserved strictly for her business wear. Alonso hung the suit neatly on the first available hanger. When he turned around, Alonso let his eyes rove over the expanse of the empty room around him. In the pale light, the blue walls resembled storm clouds. He needed no great stretch of the imagination to see the white and blue lines swirling together like the towering cumulous clouds he had known to see during the summer months. What he wouldn't give to feel the happiness of summer at that moment. Alonso heart the chime of the clock in the front foyer. He counted the tolls. It was nine in the evening.
When he completed the task of setting Cruella DeVil's chamber to right, Alonso felt an impulse he had never before acknowledged as his own. He felt the building anxiety pull him, as though with a magnetic force, to the bar beside her fireplace. Alonso craved for the sting of a strong liquor to restore his broken senses. He had never before felt more deserving of 'a strong one' as his former employer used to say. Alonso, even though he knew himself to be alone, still checked the doors of Cruella DeVil's chamber to ensure there were no witnesses to his indulgence. Alonso opened the doors to the bar and let his eyes scan the assortment before him. Remembering the warmth which follows the bite of brandy, Alonso reached for the carafe. But which glass? The valet in him asked. Cruella DeVil was not in possession of a proper snifter. Alonso instead poured an ounce for himself. Alonso heaved a sigh; the most he could muster as a toast to his recovering strength. He downed the shot. His breath caught in his throat when he felt the burn. Once it reached his stomach, the delayed warmth rose up into his throat more comforting than anything else within his reach. Alonso restored the carafe to its proper place. Cruella DeVil would return in the morning, he reminded himself. Immediately he began to concoct surprises he could devise to aid in his apology. Alonso still felt the bitter pang of remorse for what he had done. He had never thought of the perusal of her father's letters as such a personal violation. Cruella DeVil had taken it just as harshly as he might have feared, but her choice of words had been so genuine in shock Alonso knew he had come the closest he had ever known to hurting her. Alonso could hardly believe she could ever have been in a position to be hurt.
Again, like the moment of returning to consciousness, Alonso realized he has not been brutally sacked as he had so often feared.
Cruella DeVil accepted what he had done, even pitied him in her own sarcastic, and mocking tone. But this is what he expected when it came to Cruella. There was no such thing as a genuine compliment. A woman like Cruella could never leave someone certain of her true opinions of them; whether you were truly someone of importance or not. Alonso assumed it was part of the walls she had encased herself in; always keeping people at bay for reasons Alonso was beginning slowly but surely to understand.
Isabelle.
Alonso suddenly heard the name flash into his memory. Who was she? How could he have known all about this woman when the name had only been uttered to him for the first time that very evening?
Clearly, at least to her vague mention, she had been someone hidden deep within the catacombs of Cruella DeVil's memories.
Alonso searched his own memories of her father's letters. There was simply nothing. Nothing in writing.
Even so, shortly after the mention of her name, Alonso had heard Cruella DeVil herself refer to her own isolated, impenetrable heart.
Alonso could deduce nothing but that similar to the deeply rooted disappointment she had borne with Anita Campbell-Green's loss, Cruella DeVil had suffered another at the hands of this elusive Isabelle.
What could have happened to have kept no mention of her until that night? Why did the extraordinary circumstances of the evening he was enduring bring that name and memory forward in Cruella DeVil's mind?
Twice over the two nights she had spoken of heartbreak, of the aftermath as well. Why else, Alonso realized, would she suddenly choose to tell Alonso the curious case of attempted poison by ink? Perhaps in the past, he concluded, Lenora DeVille had been self-destructive in the wake of those who had left her bereft or unhappy. But than what could possibly have turned her thoughts? Alonso realized with a chill. When did she realize rather than putting herself in the center of the bull's eye for blame and scorn to instead put those that had rejected her and fire the arrows with her own hands? When did her sympathy shrivel into malice? When were the barriers built? And why of all the multitudes of men and women which crossed Cruella DeVil's path did these two persons, Isabelle and Anita, become mentioned within almost the same breath as words of grief and spite?
There was a relief to Alonso in his wanderings. He had acquired the knowledge of what it truly was that had fueled Cruella DeVil's ceaseless vendetta against Anita Campbell-Green.
Alonso knew too much, perhaps, for his own comfort.
All at once his imagination ignited and took hold of his reason. He envisioned constables, flashes of bright gold and silver badges shoved with force towards his face to elicit a response from his tongue. Every image and sound bombarded him; handcuffs, paddy wagons, and the sound of the unfeeling slam of cold and imposing prison bars.
Just as swiftly as the fear had engulfed him, Alonso had sounded a laugh. That would be a bit excessive, he deduced for himself. Prison? For stealing fifteen dogs?
Unless.
No.
Ninety nine was the sum he had read. Had she truly stolen nearly a hundred dogs on the whim of a design fancy?
Alonso could not maintain his dignified composure expected as the sturdy and unmovable valet. He sat down, firmly and with no regard for the exclusivity of still being in Cruella DeVil's boudoir, on the seat of her chaise. He propped up his head onto his hands, his elbows digging into his legs to support the heaviness of his thoughts. Alonso was determined to do nothing until he reached a resolution, a reason, for the overwhelming impulse to judge Cruella DeVil for what she had done despite his innate stance of loyalty.
No, Alonso recalled, letting his memories come forward by a trigger in his mind. No, she had not stolen them all. He could hear her voice (for it was yesterday and not as though it were) when Cruella DeVil had uttered these words before him:
"I have already given Jasper the advance to cover their cost"
Horace and Jasper Baddun
"Two men forced entry-
Alonso felt the acknowledgment of the evidence crush all foolish hope of doubt he had retained in the course of his duty to her. But even then, Alonso didn't pretend that duty to Cruella DeVil wasn't the only thing keeping his mind from listening to reason.
In that moment, Alonso felt certain he was the only man alive who could speak of the cerebral moment to moment agony of living in hell. For it was just this: perpetual doubt, resignation, fury, and indignation all at once; and all strong enough to either batter the voice of reason or swell the surges of pity and compassion within his heart, that demonstrated to him what true eternal suffering meant.
Alonso had felt tangible, physical pain at the thought of her inevitable punishment. She had to be punished. Justice was a virtue Alonso had been drilled into practicing and believing all of his life. There was no reason on Earth that should keep Anita Dearly from extracting her justice in the form of whatever punishment she chose to demonstrate against her scorned employer.
He knew it had to be done.
Leaning up from his hands and staring across the room to the reflection in the vanity mirror, Alonso realized that Cruella DeVil's fate was resting in no one else's hands but his own.
What he knew could condemn her; destroy her life and reputation beyond a damage that could be accurately measured across a lifetime.
Suddenly, clarity broke through the tempest of Alonso's mind. His reason had at once been shuttered to silence and defeated by the instinct of his heart. There was one certainty Alonso could never be broken from; even on threat of pain, imprisonment, humiliation and ridicule.
Alonso knew that just as he could condemn her, Alonso could in the same absence of words; keep the love of his life from certain ruination and despair.
But before Alonso Marzilli could prevent such events with his own course of actions, the choice was taken away from him.