by Hope Evans
ost
Hope Evans
Copyright 2014 Hope Evans
Misery. It's something that everyone feels–or thinks that they feel–at some point in their lives. Misery is defined as a state or feeling of great distress or discomfort of mind or body; but can misery really be defined? Can one really describe what they feel when misery is upon them? The desperation? The hopelessness? The depression? Misery is not something that you can define, not something that you can explain to someone. It would be useless for me to try, but I will try anyway. Dear Reader, misery gives you the feeling that the sun will never rise; misery is only a feeling achieved when you have been drained of all happiness; misery is the person who lives life alone, without a friend, without a shred of happiness. Misery is a loved one dying; misery is what drives you to jump off that bridge, or to tie that noose; misery is emptiness, the feeling that there is no reason for life to go on, no reason to try. Misery is a wretched thing, Reader. Nothing good comes from being miserable. To spend your whole life in misery would be worse than death. Misery, in the very essence of the word, is anguish.
Though, Dear Reader, we must keep in mind that to be miserable and to feel miserable are two entirely different things. Allow me to explain: if you feel miserable, it is likely that something bad or upsetting has just happened to you. If you are miserable, it is likely that something bad or upsetting keeps happening to you. Clarice Dupont was miserable.
In 1839, Paris was not necessarily the best place to live. Many of the streets were filthy and the poor were everywhere. The rich, the bourgeoisie so to speak, did not seem to care for the beggars, for the homeless who lay at their feet. The Paris of 1839 is nothing like the Paris of today in that it was full of that which we have just spoken of; the Paris of 1839 was full of misery. It was in this Paris that Clarice Dupont lived.
Clarice was born in the streets and it was there that she lived for the entirety of her short life. Her parents abandoned her at the tender age of four. From then on, she had to fend for herself. She didn’t have siblings; at least, none that she knew of. She had but one friend. His name was Antoine Duc?ur and she loved him with all that she was; but life enjoys being cruel, Reader, and Clarice’s love was unrequited. Antoine, the fool, never seemed to take much notice of her in the way of romantic relations. Poor Clarice! Her soft heart broke every time he spoke of the woman that he loved so; a young woman by the name of Fabienne Laglacée. She was everything that Clarice was not; she was rich, educated, fair-haired, soft-skinned, and beautiful. Fabienne’s beauty radiated upon all those who met her, her smile melted even the cold-hearted, her kindness charmed the heartless. Clarice knew she could never compare to the kind, beautiful Fabienne Laglacée.
Now, that is not to say that Clarice did not have redeeming qualities. She wasn’t cruel; she did possess some beauty, though it was concealed by the dirt and grime which, more often than not, coated her skin; her bright red hair, though usually fairly messy, was something to be admired; her dark green eyes shone with intelligence; and she was a loyal, selfless friend. She only had the one friend, and she was certain not to lose him. There was nothing that Clarice would not do for Antoine; she loved him so! Not that he ever noticed.
Reader, in order for you to better understand the life that Clarice lived and the misery that followed her, allow me to now narrate to you the last day that she lived.
...
It was a gloomy day in Paris, France. Rain poured down on the streets, soaking anyone who dared step a foot outside. Of course, there were those who had no choice but to bear through the rain; that is to say, there were those who did not have homes in which to seek shelter. Clarice sat, alone, under a tree in the Place Saint-Michel. It was in an attempt to shield herself from the cold, icy rain. There were a few idlers out and about, not caring too deeply about the rain.
Fools, Clarice thought, watching them with a cold glint in her eyes, the whole lot of them. Look at them, walking out here in the rain when they actually have homes to go to. Just as she had noticed them, the idlers noticed her. Having nothing better to do, they walked over to the poor, shivering girl.
“You’re soaked girl.” One of them said. “Why don’cha go on ‘ome– oh, that’s right, you don’t ‘ave one!” this caused an uproar of laughter amongst the men. One of them grabbed her arm and pulled her up. She immediately stepped away from him
“You can share my bed.” He said. She slapped him. “You little bitch!” He growled. He made another grab for her, but she was faster and stepped away, quickly turning and running down the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The men followed her for a while; but soon gave up, just as she turned down the Rue Dauphine. She was simply faster than them.
She ran for a while, just trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and those men. She ran down the Rue d'Anjou Dauphine, turning onto the Rue de Nevers, then to the Quai des Grands-Augustins as one must do when coming from the Rue de Nevers, turned onto the Rue Guénégaud, and finally slowed on the Rue Mazarine. Unfortunately for Clarice Dupont, it was not long before she encountered another group of men. This group she knew. They were a well-known gang that enjoyed beating any poor, unfortunate soul that came across them. Their leader, a Monsieur Évanteau, turned, hearing her almost-silent footsteps.
“Looka ‘ere, boys,” said He, “a gonzesse ‘as come to play.” This man, as many of the others in his gang, spoke the argot of the streets perfectly. Clarice, having heard this deformed French for her whole life, knew that this word meant ‘girl.’ Well, it wasn’t the worst she’d been called that day.
“Perhaps we should teach her not to walk into our territory.” Said another.
“Grab ‘er!” Évanteau growled. Before she could even think, Clarice was grabbed and then violently shoved to the ground. She had hardly the time to cry out before her stomach was attacked with sharp kicks, and her face met with rough fists which pounded at what they could reach. Then, and possibly worst of all, they were laughing! This poor girl was in agony and they were laughing at her pain, mocking her as they inflicted their abuse upon her. Woe was this girl who had done no wrong, who had done nothing to deserve this torture! She had only wished to escape from the other men and had taken the wrong path, ending up in the territory that belonged to this gang. The poor child!
She could feel the blood pooling around her, she could both hear and feel her nose snap, and she could still hear their cold, merciless laughs.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was finished. They were no longer beating her. She looked up, confused. Then she saw him standing there with a couple of police. Him, her Antoine. He had saved her; but then, didn’t he always? If not for him, she would be nothing. She would have no reason to be, none at all. Ah, but she had to remind herself that he did not love her; not as she loved him.
“Clarice, my God!” he exclaimed, seeing how injured she was. He bent down and gently lifted her. He almost seemed surprised by how little this girl weighed. She was far too light and far too thin. Antoine found himself wondering when she last ate.
“I'm fine.” she told him, trying to make her voice convincing. Her voice betrayed her, coming out as a weak, broken gasp.
“No, you're not. I'm taking you to the hospital.”
“Monsieur, I can't afford it.”
“Well, I can.” he replied.
“It's not necessary...” she argued. “Besides, I wouldn't be able to pay you back.” Antoine looked at her for a moment.
“You wouldn't have to pay me back.” he said softly. “Clarice, it's alright for you to admit to needing help.”
“No, it's not.”
“Yes, it is. It's okay to ask for help. It doesn't make you seem weak or needy; it only makes you human. Please, let me help you.”
Clarice sighed lightly and then nodd
ed. Antoine smiled faintly and carried her to the nearest hospital, which was on the Rue du Colombier. The doctors tended to her injuries. There was nothing too severe and she would heal fine. Her broken ribs had been mended and her nose reset. Of course, that's not to say that she wouldn't be in pain for the next couple of days; but at least she would live. Though, she thought bitterly, that's not necessarily a good thing...
Antoine payed the doctors, even paying extra so that they would allow Clarice to spend the night in the hospital. Antoine had reasoned that this was necessary in case there should be complications. In reality, his main thought process was that it would save her from another night sleeping in the streets, where she was at risk of being attacked again.
He sat by her side, watching her worriedly. She was touched that he cared so much– he was the only one that cared about her.
“So... How have things been?” She asked him, just trying to make conversation.
“Great, actually. I proposed to Fabienne. She said yes. Isn't that wonderful?”
Clarice had become very silent and pale. He... He's going to marry her... The poor girl was broken-hearted. In all her life, she had only ever loved this one man and–alas and alack–he was going to marry another! Woe to this wretched being, to this lowly
