Meanwhile, The Ogress cries.
She is sobbing big ogress tears; tears which flood the cracks in the wooden tabletop as they land. They are so big, you can clearly hear them fall.
Drip, drip, drip...
Along with the tears like spilled water-cups, there are groans and exclamations that would wring the heart of anyone, and that make The Ogress sound like she is dying.
Is she dying? In spirit, she is.
Josephine's wedding is just a week away. All day, Josephine has been with a seamstress.
It isn't a seamstress, really, it is just Gibelote with a needle and thread and a third- (or perhaps fourth-) hand white dress that will do nicely for the wedding. The Ogress cannot afford much else; she works for students who likewise cannot afford much, either.
Before the Big Day, a wholewretched year ago (Matelote would say it was several, but it had only seemed like several; it was in truth only one), when Josephine fled, the Ogress had been so looking forward to the wedding. They had had more money then, because the cooking was decent when He had been around. More importantly,He Himself was stillaround, and so The Ogress did not feel so protective of her family.
Her husband was her husband then, and not a vagabond ghost who insists on going back to a dirty, dingy hovel every day, as he is now; her daughter behaved for her and was not inclined to run away or disappear and never come back again!
The Ogress is good at assumptions. She cries out, to no-one in particular, that Olivier is aiming to split up the little rag-tag family she has cobbled together!
This cannot happen. This can not be.
There cannot be a wedding.
Drip, drip, drip...
The Reptile has just gone to bed in his room in a pretty little inn. He is laughing, though he has yet to fall asleep.
Thenardier would like this room; it is full of pretty and expensive things. Mostly, though, the sickly sweet smell of duplicity that saturated the room would be soothingly familliar to him.
The scent is coming from a letter on a table. The Reptile is still laughing, but it is in his sleep, so it is safe enough for us to creep in and peek at what he has been writing.
He has left it out, for the ink is wet.
He has been writing this letter in a very curious language, devoid of accent marks and full of curious spellings.
It is English. The letter is written in English!
Thursday, November 17th, 1831
My Dearest Brother,
I am within an inch of our prey, Edmund, and I assure you all plans will be carried out as necessary. Josephine has grown frailer and thinner since my last sojurn here in Paris (when we became "engaged"), but it is of no concern. In fact, except for a few remnants of her street life, she is lovelier now, and meeker! Her one attempt at spitefulness was just childish, and it was amusing. She is like a mouse, most of the time.
A meek girl, and although not pretty, not unpleasent! We are going to make a pretty bit of money for this one, Eddy, a very pretty bit indeed.
We are to be married (all part of the ploy, dear brother, worry not) in a week's time, and so I will be in England with the blushing bride no later than the 11th of December, I should think.
You ask why I have been spending so much time on this particular catch, dear brother, and it is simple: I sense large amounts of money will be shelled out for this girl. She will make some sodding Earl a happy man, to be sure.
And also, Edmund, I have been getting us other girls, have I not? You said yourself that the French women fetch more than the English, as the men like having mistresses who do not -cannot- talk to them and thus "spoil the relationship!"
I am making myself tear up with laughter. It is time to retire, brother, and calm myself. May God bless the lonely, ugly nobles of London and may Hekeep them forever more!
Oursis not a moral business, Eddy, but at least it is an amusing (and profitable!) one! I remain your most ardent and eager servant and loving brother,
Oliver.