Stillness is that phenomenon that occurs in things such as, shock, fear, or death. The closest one might achieve the latter is to feel at peace, the sun setting, personally is an excellent way to enter in the mind set, perhaps emotion of bliss.
There are few things to attain it, for many may have only cherished a memory, in which many have gone mad or driven to impulse by grief. Some rare individuals may experience peace when asleep. But our lady, is not one of them. Rest comes easier to others, those idle swans floating about, or those dumbstruck people whom have given up on achieving any value.
This woman, as you may call her out of politeness, was resting very peacefully. While a large bundle was tucked across her breast, she had tilted her head ever so slightly as to relax those stiff bones.
The wall she rest upon was brick upon brick, reaching about five feet higher than herself, and she lay in the alley where the gutters from the roof emptied.
Winter, is a very unkind season. The population of poor's souls decreased, either from freezing to death, or from the charitable aristocrats.
The street was plagued with icicles hanging about the roof edges, and the dung covered snow reached a few inches above the pavement. Thousands upon thousands of tiles, like thing grey bricks, made up the road of Paris. It was truly a very beautiful place, but in a depressing sort of way. Like thousands of others, she did not care a whit. The worse pairing is being both chilled to the bone, and exhausted.
This poor soul, was not the star of the street, for many were like her, but for the most part, the road was deserted, that is, it would have been if the nightly patrol would stop scraping away the scum under their boot. The inspector was very thorough.
He was the mast of the ship, the sail, and the wheel. Upon the hour of twilight, His own hollowed shell ventured the old lane, and upon his black steed, three others followed. His horse, a prideful female, was cleanly brushed, and new notables had been nailed into her dark hooves. One satchel, attached to her left side, was filled with warrants of arrest, about twenty if them. Most were for pickpocket, and only five for something as sinful as murder, or defilement.
Beyond the mare, one white, and two brown stallion followed five feet apart. Lieutenants of his Majesty the king. Upon those horses, were pure bread Frenchmen. All different in face, but all with the same mind and heart. This particular troop was not fazed by any pity, mercy, compassion, or charity. They thought to please God one might destroy every sinner, for surely none of them had been swatted by a spoon. Or swore unto a woman? Perhaps beaten an innocent child of God? Let he who hath not sinned cast the first stone. You could so clearly see the dents in their heads from the rock and rubble. Even the infamous, according to the poor, inspector Javert.
This night, they were hunting for gypsies, who dance for coin, and laid for bread. But they often were to slippery for any other officer. This path they had taken was but a detour to the main road. But something was so apparent, not to the men, but the inspector's horse. She sniffed the air like unto a blood hound, and the scent grew even to Javert's own senses. I was a sort of warm milk that was so pungent, and that of some sort of spice. It did not come from any hospus, or store, not even the public latrine. About twenty feet away, an indent, or alley, which lead up into some old flat, was where that scent lingered. Rather quickly, the inspector chose to investigate that funk of the air.
"Lieutenants, I bid you go further down past the turn just ahead, I will seek out the sight for a moment." He said in hushed pronunciations, and still facing the road East. He blended in the most extraordinary fashion, for the deep blue night sky was devoid of clouds, while his uniform was of the same hue. The other men, under his command, trotted forth pretending to not notice a thing inside the roof less corridor. But Javert got off his horse tick by tick, taking him about shifting seconds to complete the task. He had not seen of the alley led to a different road, in case someone chose to take off at the sound of the police.
His foot, though the souls of the boot her solid and thundering in step, made a noise only the keen kind of ear could perceive. Not that our lady could here it, she was fast asleep. Only his breath, filed the cool night air, the old chalune of snow was simply not deep enough to crumble as a cracker in one's mouth. However he was hardly tiptoeing, moving far quicker than any would have guessed. He snuck about, while his peers watched him closely upon the right side of the entrance unto it.
The air had grown far more dense with the stinking smell, from what he knew it would be a simple vagabond, a glass of broken milk, if any luck, he would find a gypsy. For the others the image was not clear, but for the distended limbs that blended well with the frost of eve. He pivoted in the most elegant way, he might have been in resemblance to a gymnast or dancer, but other than that moment, He was only a staffing of iron, fit enough to take a man's head clean off. Now that he faced the dark, he was sure it was a dead end. No way of escape, that thought pleased him, but only for the Lord of course.
What he perceived was breath riding the air, a cloud of it coming out every second. A human, or a dog?
"Address yourself!" He bellowed, in the way the French spoke. A creature, yes, this is what he thought it to be, for movement only came in deformed shadows from the light across the street. Shifting, shifting, shifting, and the snow was no longer blues to the tiles of stone, from what he made out, a pale hand came. Its fingers were horrifically long, and the nails were broken, with the ends red and sore. Javert had never beheld skin so pale, even so, it seemed the color of driven snow. Still it was not pure.
In the shade, he looked to the shape of two monstrous spheres, dark and disquieting to look at. He did not for see the sound of a crying child coming from the same direction. It's screech pierced the air, plunging into every ear close to it, in short it was deafening.
The inspector dared to step three paces closer, and he saw only a pale woman. Not pale, white. Her face not filling in view, for it was covered by an old rag, and church ing on the ground she was. She wore clothes highly unfit for winter, her footwear, were sandals, made from old straw, and strung together, the lowest form of scraping from the bottom of the barrel. She wore brown, like the color of horse hair, most was made of cattle hide, or loose fabrics of linen that was to ancient for use. Then, elastic rapped around her bosom, and had been tied in the back. It was holding a very small babe inside, from the look of it she had been suckling, and that was the scent that was so apparent to him. But he was so deeply proud of himself, for the woman answered in a tongue entirely different from him.
"Men! Take this gypsy mother into custody, bind her hands, and bring use for the runt upon her!"
YOU ARE READING
The Ghost of Gillenormand
General Fiction"I know this painting, I would stare at it for hours as a little girl. I knew this lady was familiar, but I know fully it is her. She told me herself."
