Truly, Colombe thought wreathed in the warm, loving embrace of her friends who circled round about her, bonds forged in sorrow and despair, were stronger than those crafted from hope and joy. For it was the bitter truths that when faced together showed one, who ones true friends were. Vowing never to stray from one another's side again the quartet soothed away their tears as Colombe's fresh pain brought dark remembrance for each in turn.
"We shan't ever be far from you again, I swear it!" Sophie, who had been quite a game in the servants hall when she had first arrived; a disgraced and penniless former lady of society, promised. She bit her lip recalling well the shames cruel hearted men and women wrought upon her simply because they were level enough in station that they could.
Taking a few moments to themselves, moments they should have spent cleaning if they didn't want to catch the wrath of Madame Chaput they comforted one another, seated in a quiet corner where they were certain no one would bother them.
It was Vivian who posed the question, no other seemed prepared to voice. "Is there any chance of a pregnancy?" she murmured, detangling Colombe's hair in a maternal way as she spoke. Vivian was acquaintanced with a woman. Though rarely did mention of the woman ever arise Viv had helped others find their way to her home when they found themselves burdened with things meant to be fixed. It didn't always take, and death was a very real possibility, but most women who sought such services felt that it was a preferable alternative.
"No!" Felicty barked angrily as she gave Vivian a temperamental shove. She fell quiet in the seconds that followed as everyone cast Colombe sorrowful glaces.
"No," the girl said, a nervous smile spreading across her face as she smoothed out her skirts. Colombe shook her head, bitter tears of relief and denial spilling from her cheeks as she answered again in a voice quickly gone hoarse, stolen away by fear. "No, none, there's not."
"If there is," Vivian murmured with gentle understanding. "You come to me, I won't send you off to see her alone."
"Does is hurt?" Colombe heard herself rasp before she could stop herself.
"Yes." Vivian answered, bobbing into the other girl's vision. "Yes it does, and if God is merciful, it hurts twice as much for the men equally, or more so at fault for putting us through it, in the afterlife."
"Wouldn't it be so much easier if we just castrate all the men?" Sophie mused then, as often she did in the half-witted manner that made her so endearing to the group.
Laughter rolled through the quartet as the young woman quickly tried to rectify her statement, to no avail Felicity had whirled away brandishing an invisible blade, swinging low with sultry jabs and insults hurled from her lips. From this show came the tale of how the red haired warrior had saved Colombe and the day, she demonstrated quite expertly how she had dispatched the wretch leaving him marked by the blow and his shame.
It was with a fool's luck that by the time the four friends, still chortling to amongst themselves of Felicity's heroics, all hard feelings quickly and quietly dispersed in the face of their familial love for one another, that Madame Chaput would be standing at their stair hands at her hips, a cold, cruel expression playing out upon her tightly held visage.
Nearing the stern, greying woman, the merry quartet, felt a decidedly harsh anticipation beginning to settle about their shoulders, their footfalls slowing, with melancholy, a cold pit opening in the bottoms of each girls' stomach. Chaput had just returned from chapel, her telltale, uniformly black manner of dress, gave it away, as the widow only ever remembered her late husband, and honored him if the entire congregation could be witness to her piety, and faith which was further exemplified by the overlarge, burdensome crucifix that hung about her neck. This was far from fortunate for any who worked beneath her loathesome gaze.
"Whose bucket is this?" the head maid asked, her naturally fair tone pinched sharp, when the four were close enough to see what had transpired.
Three stairs from the crown of the main landing before the case branched off to the left and the right, Colombe's bucket lay on its side; brackish grey-brown wash water slowly dripping down the stairs in what must have been a waterfall when first overturned. The brunette closed her eyes tightly as if she could wish it all away, while her stomach knotted against the truth that wishes never come true. There would be no saints or angels to correct her mistakes this time, no one to watch over her, regardless if how Zita might have once felt concerning a missing key. In all the turbulence of the assault, Felicity's rescue, and their shared flight deeper within the opera house, no one had noticed this most costly mistake.
"Well?" Chaput shrilled, pinching the bridge of her nose when she failed to get a timely response.
"It is mine, Madame, I beg your pardon." Colombe confessed, stepping forward and giving a small respectful bow though her eyes remained fastened to her feet, there was no hope for respite or mercy on a chapel day.
Madame Chaput regarded the girl whom she felt had been a nuisance, and thorn in her side from the moment she had arrived in the maid quarters, thin and willful, with disdain. Her eyes narrowed she then gave the situation thought for a long tense minute before speaking again.
"Stand," she said motioning to a place on the floor just in front of her, with her cane. The sudden and unexpected movement of the hellish device made the other's eyes flutter in surprise.
"Please, Madame, it wasn't Colombe's fault Joseph Bouquet was-" Felicity began earnestly before she was cut off.
"Joseph Buquet is the chief stagehand, his place is in the back of the opera house, he would not be using the main staircase," the Madame broke in on her, anger evident in the color rising to her face, and quickly catching like kindling against any who opposed her. "He knows his place, it is time now that you learn yours, come, stand here, I will teach you respect also."
Pressing her lips together Felicity angrily complied. Having grown up a servant of the Palais Garnier she knew well when it was time to give up the fight, and when enough was enough. She'd tried to defend them, Colombe knew it, and that was all that mattered she felt, besides, one overturned pail was not worth being turned out onto the streets.
"How many words did you speak against me?" Chaput asked, adjusting the lace at the ends of her long, heavy, black sleeves. The little scene had begun to draw the attention of nearby workers, a pair of women who polished a marble bust, pausing to snicker as they watched.
Fingers tapping against her thumb the red head counted, "Nine Madame." she answered, defiantly maintaining eye contact.
Motioning for the young woman to raise the hem of her dress Chaput, who heaved a sigh, as if put out and then rapped her cane fiercely across Felicity's shins, hard enough to welt and later bruise. Felicity winced, and yelped as the blows fell, her toes curling within her shoes. By the end of it, the ordeal had left the front of her legs to feel hot and throb dully as her friends looked on.
Colombe felt a pinch of guilt within her bosom, knowing that this had all been her doing, superstitiously counting each biting whack as rueful tears found their way into her eyes. It was all her fault.
When Chaput had finished with shins it was time for hands, very seldom did she ever give one without the other, and this proved the most difficult for Felicity, Colombe knew it by the fire in her companion's eyes. Taking nine strikes against her palms, it was hard for the rebel not to seize the stick and beat her superior with it, as she oftimes did in many a flight of fancy or daydream shared aloud, but like always she somehow managed not to.
Then, it was Colombe's turn. Stepping forward she lifted her dress to knee level, eyes shut, bile swallowed down hard, she wanted to hide as much of her body as she could and never let it be seen again. Colombe shook loose the thought, took a deep breath, and waited.
A cold thrill of unease washed through her, when the others were dismissed under the pretense of sparing her the indignity of an audience, ordered to return to their duties which needed finishing before the doors could be opened to the privileged among the public who could afford entry. Certain that Madame Chaput would have struck her the number of stairs marred Colombe was quickly recounting them in her mind to keep from wondering what the hellish woman had devised for her.
The Madame smiled when the two were alone, a sharp toothed predatory expression when coupled with the cruel glint her eyes currently held. "Monsieurs Firmin and André, are quite punctual, when it comes to their managerial duties." she observed sourly. It had been long known now, by the Populaire that Lefèvre was resigning, but for the artists, it was still just a rumor, today was the day of the big announcement.
"They were here, only moments ago, and can you care to guess what greeted their arrival?" she went on, each word holding an edge to it. "Hm?" The maid shook her head solemnly though she well knew the answer.
"That!" Chaput spit with disdain, a red angry hue blossoming in her neck and rising up into her face.
The cracking of the cane against little protected bone at the front of the girl's legs caused Colombe to start with a little cry, and make the folly of stepping back. Vexed by this Chaput's temper flaired, though she had the dignity and foresight as not to let it outwardly show, save in the swing of her weapon. By the time the ordeal was over Colombe's legs bore blood, the initial sting of the cane replaced by a deep burgeoning fire, her flesh swollen, red, and throbbing, her palms were little different.
Madame Chaput stood with a calculating air about her, watching Colombe sniff back her poorly suppressed tears, the girl's nose pooling and beginning to run, as she had incorrectly assumed she'd run out of tears to give.
"As penance you will wash the entire Grand Foyer, floors and stairs every night before you retire for the evening until I deem your punishment over, and work sufficient, or you will never again find yourself working, let alone housed under this roof."
"Yes Madame." Colombe murmured, dipping into what slight curtsy she could muster.
"And?" the widow shrilled, brow arched as she half turned to leave.
"Thank you Madame." Colombe chucked out, bitterness half repressed in her tone.
Colombe watched the devil in black silks, and lace take her leave before crumpling, painfully to the marble. The tears wouldn't stop coming, she hiccupped, and gulped, and prayed, and swore and they still wouldn't stop coming, but they had to. Willing herself to stop, a strangled cry ripping itself out between clenched teeth she struggled mightily, to reign herself in and control her rampant emotions. When finally Colombe felt she had the young woman turned her attention to the stairs.
The water was cold, the grit of dirt beneath her fingernails and soaking into the folds of her dress uncomfortable. She had no way to salvage her skirts least she tie them up higher, well above their getting wet, but that she could not bring herself to do. It was evil to abuse the girls in the way that Chaput did. Beatings were one thing, but to rap their legs and hands in the manner she frequented, seemed unforgivable. It served a vile purpose however, for Colombe could no more lie in bed without feeling the sting, than she could stand. Scrubbing as she was required to on hands and knees however? Her body felt tortured with flames. Chaput knew this, and reveled in the pain she inflicted, and the power by which she caused it.
So it was, as Colombe scoured the floor, that the faintest sound of a familiar aria taken up by an unfamiliar voice should echo through the Opera house. It scarcely seemed fair, how beautiful it was.