Thanks for all the lovely reviews, everyone! You make my head swell to a size that is not in proportion to my body. Now, This story is Madame Albertine's, who is the most obscure character thus far. She makes no appearance in the musical or in any movies I am familiar with, so if you haven't read the novel, this story will be a bit over your head. Get out your copies, or go online, to the book of Cosette, and then I think it's chapter five, the Petit-Picpus. Scan the chapter, look for Madame Albertine. 110% off her rocker.
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I do not speak. I save my words for you, Auguste. I do not speak. I have not spoken since I saw you during the sermon. I do not speak. I merely hide. I hide within myself.
I hear them talk about me. They speak. They speak of "pecuniary arrangements." But. Auguste, worry not- they do not know how these monetary arrangements come into the story. They only know of the wedding. They do not know. They do not know of what you did.
I saw the girls. The girls you had, those "maids" of yours. Dripping. Dripping with blood. Always bleeding. They would quit bleeding, eventually. Then you'd jab them. They would scream. Cry. You would encourage them. You loved it. You loved their screams.
The women were taken in by the curls. Your curls. Your agreeable air. You got to know each one. Made them feel as if they were special. Then, you'd slit. Slit their wrists and throw them into the cellar. They always ended up there.
You tricked them. They were only peasant girls. They were afraid. Afraid to anger you, afraid to contradict you. You were above them. If you killed them, killed their families, nobody would notice. Nobody would care. They were but peasants. You were noble. You tricked them. Others knew. Other nobles. They turned a blind eye.
Not me. You didn't trick me. Not me. I was already a noble. You couldn't promise me riches. Couldn't promise me a title. I had them. Had those things. You promised me love. You promised me. Empty promises. Closest thing to love I got was a kiss on cut lips. You cut my lips. You promised.
My parents. My Papa, demon of demons. We were rich. Didn't need it. Didn't need your money. Papa wanted it. He saw you around me, touching me, kissing me. Kissing is immoral. He dropped hints. Told you you were immoral. Made you feel like you'd never get me. Sly man. He knew you needed me. Needed my body. You bought my hand in marriage for 1,000 francs. You bought it. You bought my hand. You bought it.
You bought me. He sold me. One thousand francs. That was the "pecuniary arrangement."
I loved you. I thought you loved me. You acted like any other man. That's what you said. I believed. Believed you.
You just wanted another girl to cut. A girl who could never leave. The others ran away eventually. You let them. You let them leave. By then, they couldn't bleed any longer. You didn't care. You wanted blood.
I couldn't. I couldn't leave. You owned me.
One day, Maman came. I don't blame Maman. She didn't sell me. She loved me.
You charmed her. Charmed Maman. She decided to stay. Said there was no sense in going home so late. She'd go with us to Sunday mass.
No girl should watch their mother bleed to death.
Screams. Laughter. Screams. Laughter. The smell. The blood. The mirth. White floor turned red. Screams. Laughter. Screams.
Papa. Papa found out. Sent me to the convent. They speak. They say I'm crazy. Not crazy. Not crazy. Do you think I'm crazy?
I was surprised. Surprised to see you preaching. They say you are a high-ranking priest. Did you? Did you buy that position? Help your conscience. You have no chance. No chance at heaven.
They say you were an officer, once. I did not know. I knew nothing. The peasant girls knew more.
Screams. Laughter. You promised me, Auguste.
I do not speak.
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I know the repetition must get on your nerves, readers, but I didn't want to portray the psychotic Madame Albertine any other way. So, sorry for one bothersome chapter, next up is Nicolette, I'll be able to return to someone with grammar and sanity at long last.