D'Arque made his nightly rounds of the asylum in silence. He needed time to think about what this girl meant to him – the way he'd have to run the asylum. He knew her father had to eventually return to look for her, and what then? How would he strong-arm Maurice into talking Belle into marrying Gaston?
Oh, this idiotic crusade of Gaston's! He wanted nothing to do with it. All this silly girl-chasing was going to wear that man down. D'Arque had no time for it. He couldn't remember the last time he went after a girl, and he didn't care to. He snorted, shoving on hand into his pocket and pulling out one of the gold coins Gaston had given him. A pretty girl, he thought to himself, will not stay pretty forever. This gold, however, will forever look very nice indeed.
On the other hand, he could feel his heart softening somewhat to Belle. He could see why the girl didn't want to marry Gaston – who would be all that eager to become some brute's doormat, after all? And to lock up a girl to force her to marry you… It seemed to be anything but a proper way to go about this.
But when did I ever care about proper, anyway? He reminded himself. I own an asylum, and I take money to lock people up. Are they really crazy? Who knows? Who cares, so long as the price is right?
Upon checking that all of the inmates were bestowed in their correct rooms, he sighed and sat in a large plush chair in his front office. Everything seemed so complicated. Why should he bother worrying about fools' morals? It wasn't as if life had treated him well enough to worry over other people's problems. He had quite enough of his own.
He let his gaze wander up to the front wall, to a pasty, paint-peeling old portrait of his parents. What a couple they were, he thought with a sigh. A pretty Paris society girl and a Senegalese immigrant. A union, he reminded himself, that lasted just long enough to create me. Why do I keep that portrait up? What purpose does it serve?
But he hadn't the heart to tear it down.
Silly Gaston. Falling over himself to get a girl. Girls were a useless endeavor – no matter how gorgeous or good in bed they were, or whatever else criteria matter. But Gaston was a boy – as tough as he might think himself, that was what he was, a boy, less than half D'Arque's age.
He'll come to his senses one day. Or he won't. It's not my problem.
A burst of sound suddenly cut into D'Arque's thoughts. A woman was loudly screaming that her husband was stealing someone else's face.
D'Arque sighed. There was his peace and quiet, slashed as usual. He lifted himself out of the chair and began the slow walk over to the woman's room.