Whistling. I'm always Whistling (Open)

[gustave]

Sargent Desjardins whistled as he patrolled the street. Though he had the chance to use a horse and indeed one was stabled for him, he much preferred to walk. Perhaps it was the footslogger in him in that required it or maybe he just preferred to walk and whistle and think and often scope out potential areas that could be used against the Revolutionaries. Should it ever come to outright violence on the streets. Gustave unlike many of his comrades preferred to patrol alone, owing more than likely due to his intimidating height, imposing physical presence and his military experience he was left well alone by all but the most tenacious and even those eyed him with caution.

'The Sargent' as he was known rather affectionately by the gutter-rats and plague ridden commoners that seemed to frequent the long street of Rue Saint-Denis. At least Gustave found his name to be affectionate or he considered it as much as he carried on walking and whistling to himself. Fully uniformed, immaculately dressed and clean, it was as if someone had just placed a freshly recruited officer in the midst of one of the darker streets that lurked within the Parisian underbelly.

But the whistling officer was never challenged by any group of malcontents, intent on harming the Government or at least taking out their frustrations at said Government out on one of it's officials. On the contrary, the people were kind to Gustave, kind enough to stay out of his way, by doing so they didn't incur the Sargent's wrath and that was a good enough compromise for any pickpocket or thief that wished to ply his trade on the street. Of course Desjardins was one of those men who could walk anywhere in the city at anytime of day and be little more than have stones thrown at him by children or names shouted at him by haggard old housewives who had little else to do.

Gustave cared little for those trifling matters as he continued to whistle and walk, of course he was well armed as befitted a member of the Parisian police force during these tenuous times. A saber hung at his waist, a relic from wars of years gone by, he carried a baton, oh his fists of course were weapons. Seemingly made of granite by all who felt the heavy hands rain down on them in trained barrages that felt like musket shots.

Gustave had done only one thing his entire life. Made war, even as a child he played at war games with the other children and he would always win, if not from brutal physical force, then from pure strength of will and mind. He was very much like his colleague Javert in that he simply didn't give up for any man or any obstacle and that faced him. He stopped for a second, black boots polished to a shine clicking once as he looked around. There was something not particularly right about this place.

It was all rather too easy, even for him. Sea-grey eyes worn like rocks by constant tidal surges scanned this way and that before narrowing. He frowned and breathed through his nose, it all seemed too easy. Too quiet.... Frowning to himself he approached a figure with it's back turned to him speaking softly, but firmly. "Excuse me... you haven't happened to see anything strange happening today, have you?"

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Watching the children running around, she smiled. She lifted the skirt of her dress, just so it skimmed the floor. Her hands clung to the material, not wanting to drag her skirt through the streets. She dropped the material briefly, to tie her long hair back with a ribbon. Niamh liked wondering. She did. Of course the poverty ridden children she often saw saddened her, she often thought about helping them, but that would mean giving. Niamh wasn't great at giving. She found it incredibly hard. Her olive green eyes scanned the street ahead, as she looked for a different direction to walk. She often liked to explore new places, which on times had gotten her into trouble with her brother. A soft smile appeared on her lips as she recalled one of her so called 'misadventures'. Her brother was probably just looking out for her, but sometimes it left her angry and frustrated. She wanted her freedom. She picked up her dress again, being overly careful to miss a slight dip in the pavement. She knelt down as an small girl began to pull at her dress. Looking the little street child in the eyes, she gave her a pitying smile, and then seemed to ponder for a moment, before pulling away and hurrying off without a word. She didn't even look back. She just paced off. Niamh sighed softly. The girl had looked so needy, and yet again Niamh had ran off. She loved children and even then could not bare to share. Once she was far enough, Niamh allowed herself to glance back, and when she could see no sign of the poor girl, she tried not to act as if she had been holding her breath at all. Niamh stopped, her feet weary from a day of walking. She'd woken early that morning. The day had been fine to begin with, and Niamh had wanted to make the most of it. So she had pulled on one of her nice dresses, done her hair – then undone it – and made her way out before her brother even realised she was gone. When she heard a soft voice, she jumped mostly because she had not realised anyone was so close. Her hands raised to her heart, and she turned around, since the other was speaking to her. As soon as she saw who it was, she instantly knew. While she had never met the Sargent in person. She had seen him in Paris from time to time. “Sargent, you scared me” she laughed breathlessly, then she quickly sobered. “No Sir, should I have been looking for anything in particular?” she asked him, tilting her head to the side, an action that caused the loose ponytail she had her hair in to flop over her shoulder. She tugged at an odd loose strand of hair before wrapping it around her finger. She was not necessarily nervous, but merely a fidgety woman. She ran her index finger against her bottom lip, and gave the Sargent a bright smile.

[atrb=width,100] words , 510 words tagged , Gustave Desjardins notes , I hope this is okay <3

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[gustave]

Gustave was only slightly surprised to find a rather well dressed female the subject of his question. It didn't show on his worn face he'd been surprised much more during his life and the simple, rather pleasurable surprise of an attractive, presumably aristocratic lady, well-dressed and rather well..... rather oddly placed in this dark environment, where Gustave was fairly sure light itself would not tread here if given half the chance to escape. The Sargent's hands moved behind his back and clasped one another, much in the manner Napoleon was prone to do when on campaign.

Gustave however found the clasping behind the back rather restrictive and a little intimidating so he simply released his hands and let them slide to the sides of his imposing body. "Ahh Madamoiselle, forgive me I did not mean to cause you fear." he removed his bicorne hat and bowed his head to her. His hair too was pristine and washed. Finishing the bow he placed the hat back on his head and looked at the woman rather awkwardly. She was clearly miles above him in social standing and in wealth, though they didn't look too dissimilar in the manner of dress but that was simply due to the beautifully clean clothes he wore and indeed the way he conducted himself.

Back straight, eyes forward, nose pointing towards the person you're talking to. He had all the poise and uprightedness of a very arrogant nobleman, but there was always something about Gustave that stopped people from asking that question about his status within society, it was the way he carried himself as if he was waiting for the next punch life was to throw at him and cared little for it and that he would respond in kind. His grey eyes adjusted slightly to look upon the woman's face more closely and he would have smiled.

For she was beautiful and though much younger than Gustave, she seemed rather.... interested in talking to him. Which made him rather nervous, for he was never a man confident in dealings with women. Not that he hadn't had his fair share, he just never had the confidence to follow through and think of something intelligent and thought-provoking to say. He nodded at her words watching as she twisted a strand of dark hair around a pale finger. "I was simply wondering Madame, do not worry your pretty mind with such thoughts.... 'Owever how does a woman such as you end up in a slum like this one? Have you been attacked or had your pockets rifled by some uncomely street-urchin?" Gustave was one of those officers that would only pursue a crime as long as he felt necessary and some crimes he simply chose not to pursue at all.

However the idea of winning this fair ladies favor through aiding her in whatever struggle had brought her to Rue Saint-Denis far outweighed the potential risk to himself.

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Niamh was not scared of the Sergeant. While intimidating, he was the law, and Niamh had no reason to fear the law. She was not a street-urchin nor a thief. No, Niamh was an English Aristocrat, who had moved to the country because she enjoyed her holidays there. Licking her lips, she moved a foot forward, and twisted it around on the ground. She waited for him to finish his bow before she talked, she was very secretly pleased that he had recognised the need to bow for her. “It is fine, dear Sergeant, you merely tested my heart's strength” she told him in her soft Irish accent, that had faded over time, but still it persisted in staying on her tongue. While she loved her accent, she had always admired the rich French one, the natives of France had. Everyday she woke up in France without an accent, she had to say she was a little bit disappointed, which was slightly childish really. When he commented on her surroundings, she looked around almost in shock. “I was merely wandering around. Exploring if you will” she explained with a wave of her hand. She ran her hand against the rich green colour of the bodice of her dress. The dark green almost seemed to emphasise the paleness of her skin. She placed her hands together in front of her body. She watched the Sergeant, his clean clothes and demeanour made her think of her peers, the aristocrats often held themselves like that. She played with her nails in her palm, and she mentally scolded herself, her mother had always hated when she fidgeted. She had told her it wasn't lady-like. Yet Niamh had never been able to stop. She was just a very fidgety person. It often saddened her when she thought about her mother, but not as much as it used to. The pain had faded over time. Like they'd all said, but it never left her. It was always there niggling at her under the surface. She untied the ribbon in her hair, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders, in it's natural curls. Her cheeks blushed a light pink, which while light, stood out against her colourless skin. She flicked her eyes down, and checked her pockets, all of her money was still there, but when she stopped to look at her hands, she realised something was gone. One of her rings had been taken. Probably by one of the children, who had circled around her earlier. “Oh, my ring is gone, but that is nothing to worry about, I can buy myself a new one” she smiled softly, while she was upset that the ring was now lost, she was not all too scared about it. “Do not worry Sergeant, I have not been attacked today” it was true, she had not. She bit her bottom lip, and paused for a moment, before stepping closer to the Sergeant. “Je m'appelle Niamh, Monsieur” she told him. She shifted her shoulders, so that her hair brushed off and rested on her shoulder blades and her spine.

[atrb=width,100] words , 519 words tagged , Gustave notes , I had to rewrite this, since I forgot to copy it and didn't save it in word, so hopefully it's not too bad <3

TEMPLATE BY THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE MIKEY @ CAUTION 2.0

[gustave]

Gustave maintained his air of quiet interest as the woman fidgeted and adjusted and graced him with her presence. Gustave of course was an officer of the law and would the woman have met him any other capacity particularly off duty she'd have seen him as another member of the unwashed poor, a dirty, down and out rent by alcohol and lacking the majesty and unburdened by the wretched environment that the commoners lived in. Gustave was a shining beacon, a light in troubled times, as an officer of the law he was bound to serve it and the Government for the foreseeable future. As a man, whose life had been stripped away by war, been cut and hacked and slashed into a long tableaux of pain and suffering by the acts he had committed willingly in the name of his country only to find those acts vilified, vindicated and generally abused for by all who knew of them. He had been heralded as one of the saviors of France by the people as he paraded in his bearskin hat in his navy blue uniform musket held proudly. He had something to fight for. Now he was a Sargent, a tall, brooding and exceedingly well built Sargent. But one none the less, below even some of the most idiotic human beings he had ever had the bad fortune to meet, people who could scarcely count to ten, let alone see straight.

But that was the price he had to pay for the service to his country. The thoughts raced through his head and he felt a familial rage grip at his heart, wrenching and tearing as it screamed and bellowed to be unleashed on the people who wished to kick France whilst she was down. The brigands who roamed the streets in gangs of six or seven, armed with knives, bricks torn from broken buildings whose rafters appeared to emulate blackened rib cages. The pick-pockets and street children who though it was through no fault of their own, were pressed into service to steal jewelry, money, anything from the wealthy to line the purses of those even uglier minded individuals who employed even children to do their own dirty work for them. Gustave found that type of behaviour morally reprehensible and was quick to seize, jump on and generally antagonise anyone he thought of running a gang that involved the usage of children for nefarious means.

Even as the woman spoke to him of a missing ring Gustave's lined face creased into a gentle frown, a downward sloping of the lips that seemed all to often to pass over his visage. He wanted to find the urchin who had stolen then woman's ring and he wanted to throw them some coin at least enough to pay for some food for the poor child for a day. Though Gustave often appeared as a vanguard for his feared friend Javert, he was respected and loved by the people at least as much as Javert was feared. Though there always that sense of something else in the way people saw him, they saw that rugged determination in his eyes, the square set jaw, the unforgiving mouth. They saw the roughness leak through the disguise of his immaculate uniform and perfectly trimmed facial hair. There was a warrior lurking deep within Gustave Desjardins that threatened to leap out at any moment.

The rage at this tiny crime perpetrated against this unknown figure seemed to reach deep inside Gustave and pull at the very essence for his joining the Parisian police force in the first place. Though he hadn't been followed by most of his comrades many returned home, others simply re-enlisted. Gustave was pensionless, penniless and stripped of any prestige or wealth gained during Napoleon's campaigns. What meagre wealth he had was spent on trifling excess such as his love for alcohol of pipe-smoking. He was a poor man in a prestigious, clean uniform.

He looked upon the woman with kindly, gentle eyes that hinted at something darker lurking underneath. His face grew softer still as the woman made an effort to speak his own native tongue. He smiled softly, the frown briefly disappearing. Retorting in French, "Bonjour Madamoiselle...." his voice was soft and kind and belied his fearsome, grizzled appearance. "It is a pleasure to make your acquintance... I am Sargent Gustave Desjardins of the Paris Police force.... Now I believe you said your ring was stolen by a street urchin... let us go for a walk."

He stalked off, his kindly tone seemingly lost. "Please follow me Madamoiselle... I believe I can find your ring.... though I may have to ask some questions." he turned and looked at her carefully and stood awaiting her to catch up with his quick-step.

OOC: Sorry it's so long and I love your posts Abi <3

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Niamh's soft coloured eyes surveyed the Sergeant, the way he conducted himself reminded her of her uncle, and her brother. Though more of her uncle. There was a hint of something dark in his eyes and something kind. It was the latter that intrigued her. His eyes portrayed an lifetimes worth of experiences. Niamh always found peoples eyes interesting, they could shine through a multitude of emotions and it was rather hard for someone to lie with their eyes. That was why she often liked to look at her companions in the eye. Niamh had not seen many horrors in the world, the worst was the fire that stole away her parents lives. Niamh's chest rose and fell with each soft breath she took. Heaving the material up as far as it would go, which with the corseted bodice, was not all that far. She remembered how uncomfortable her first corset had been. Restricting and tight she had been unable to breath. Yet as the years went by and she wore them more, she adjusted to the way they restricted her breathing and movements, so they did not anger her so much anymore. She often tried not to take deep breaths in for they would pinch at the tough boning in the corset. Running her hands along the sides of her bodice, she could feel the corset structure underneath her dress. Her pale fingers splayed around her waist. Niamh, while she was not short, had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes. Niamh felt small compared to the well built man in front of her, his muscular frame suggested a strength that Niamh's slight frame could not possess. Niamh believed that it was one of the reasons he must have made a fine Sergeant. There was something about the way he stood, that intrigued the young lady. Niamh's heart always clenched uncomfortably when she saw the children starving on the streets, and always clenched just as uncomfortably when she did nothing about it. Why she didn't, she could never tell. There was always an excuse. She needed the money for food. For clothes. For a drink. In truth they needed the money more than her, and she often told herself that when they stole little things from her, they were just taking what they needed. Niamh abhored the gang-leaders who initiated young children into their gangs, children were not to be used for ill gains. Children were an source of natural innocence that Niamh found thoroughly endearing. The way children saw the world was so different to the adult point of view and at a certain age, or stage in development it was seemingly lost. Niamh often lamented for the children whose parents were meant to protect them from the horrors of the world did not. While Niamh's parents had protected her as long as they could, her brother had willingly taken over their duty and while she loved him for it. At 20, she was beginning to feel a little smothered. As Gustave's face slid into a frown, Niamh wondered what a smile would look like if it graced his lips. She was sure he would look quite charismatic if he smiled. There was an rough handsomeness to his features, that made Niamh wonder what he had been through. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and smiled up at him. She was right, his smile was rather becoming on him, and made him look more approachable than his frown had. “Sergeant Desjardins, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance too – et oui, j'ai fait” she spoke sweetly, while she knew french, she was still not completely confident when she spoke the language, so she preferred to speak her native English. She was surprised that he felt her ring worth following up, but she was not about to tell him not to bother. She was rather enjoying his company, and she might as well regain her ring. Seeing as it was hers, and while it was true, she could buy a new one, it would involve a trip back to England and the new one would never hold the same value that this one had to her. So she merely walked after him. Her heeled black boots clacking on the floor as she stepped on. He walked quickly, and she had to double her pace to keep up, but she managed to. “Thank you for this Sergeant, it's a very kind thing for you to do” she spoke as she walked beside him, managing to keep in time with his pace, though she fell behind slightly, merely half a step, so that she would not miss a turning or get herself lost. “the Paris police force must be incredibly lucky to have a Sergeant like yourself” she told him.

[atrb=width,100] words , 809 words tagged , Gustave Desjardins notes , The second post I had to rewrite, but I think this one is actually better than the first one so woo <3

TEMPLATE BY THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE MIKEY @ CAUTION 2.0

[gustave]

Gustave could only think about who would have taken the ring as he walked allowing the aristocrat to keep pace behind him, much like a master keeping it's dog on a leash or trying to and failing slightly. He imagined that the woman had about as much physical strength as he had words to say on the economic condition of France's East India trading company. Very little and rather lacking in substance. So he carried on walking, grey eyes scanning. People backed out of the huge Sargent's way through fear of simply being thrust aside as he carried on into the deep, dark underbelly of the street that was notorious for being a warren of passages. The fact that Sargent Desjardins knew every passage, every cramped street like the back of his hand was a testament to is excellent memory and recall. One of the few mental gifts he had that wasn't dulled by the rather excessive alcohol consumption. He had still had his memory and of course his poetry, he was educated in a way. At least he could read and write which was more than what he could say for many of the men, women and particularly the children he came across on his patrols around his city.

But right now he was finding a ring and he knew exactly where he'd find it, or whom to talk to about it. An old informant of his would know exactly where the ring was, no doubt because the simpering opium addict had probably paid the child to steal it. Gustave had long since given up on imprisoning this particular man simply because he had a habit of urinating himself and the surrounding area copiously if Gustave ever came remotely close to him with handcuffs. Of course Gus could have beaten the man into unconsciousness and dragged him off, he was in the right mind to do so at that very moment. He could feel the rich woman's eyes on the back of his head and he wondered as to her thoughts. Perhaps she thought he was some sort of rich man in a police uniform, simply trying to right the wrongs of his fellow rich men, perhaps she saw through the uniform to the very core of him and realised what he was.

But what was Gustave Desjardins? What existed within him, what made him up. Organs, blood, eyes, a brain, all manner of rather gruesome giblets. But what was the essence of him, the soul of him. What did this lowly Sargent, whose life had been pulled apart under the watchful eyes of the Bourbon King and his lackeys. What did this Sargent have that made him any different from the men who ducked away from him, whose dirty, unwashed hands covered faces and they avoided his gaze. What made him different. Rank. Uniform. Saber. Strength. Strength made him different, the will to persevere and carry on and fight through conflict and hatred made him different, to drag himself from the hated mire of self-despair and pity. He had seperated himself from the people.

It took only that moment of realisation to inform Sargent Desjardins that only his uniform made him a better person and something deep inside broke and crumbled. It did not show on his weathered face or in his long, powerful stride. For he had rounded the corner and there sat looking rather too happy with himself was his informant. Something in his hand, a child scattered as Gustave glowered, that primal hatred that had swollen and grasped at his mind was bellowing with hatred, roaring to be unleashed on the poor man who had only caused Gustave trouble, despite the Sargent's lack of determination to arrest him for being a blatant thief.

"ahhhh Sargent." The man simpered as Gustave stepped up and reached forward a huge hand grasped the man's collar and suddenly he was up in the air being held against the rough brick wall. "It's so nice to see you too...." the man smiled a toothless, grin. Gustave's rage threatened to pull and push it's way out of him. "Bonjour to you as well Madame." the man bowed his head to the woman as much as Gustave's restrictive grip allowed him too.

The conversation between the Sargent and his informant was conducted wholly in French. Gustave would prefer it if the woman understood as little as possible. For this man was an evil one, the very scum of the earth. The kind of man that if he was still a soldier Gustave would have beaten to death long ago. But he was an Officer of the law and the law demanded that this man be given fair trial. "I want the woman's ring." he gesticulated with his other equally large hand at Niamh before throwing the informant against the wall. "Are you going to ask nicely Sargent?" the man chuckled and groaned as that heavy fist that had been pointing at the rich woman thudded into his rickety ribcage. "One More chance Monsieur Tibault... or I will by God see to it that your legs and arms are snapped in so many ways that you will never again be able to stand." The threat was indeed very real.

Gustave's brawny fingers began to squeeze the man's chicken like throat. Finding purchase in the wrinkled, dirty skin. "Tibault. Give me the ring." The scrawny man began to shake and his face began to darken into a rather odd mix of purple and blue. "My...." the man choked back. 'Tibault's' scrawny fingers reached down and patted his left pocket of the tattered, raggedy coat he was wearing. "Pocket." Gustave dropped him and threw a savage kick into the man's stomach that drove whatever air was left inside his chest out with a whoop and a wheezing sigh. "Tibault. Do not so much as look at stolen goods again or I will beat you. I will hurt you. Are we clear man?" his voice had taken on a hard, firm authoritarian tone. 'Tibault' nodded and groaned holding his chest as Gustave fished out a golden circlet and walked back to the woman.

Switching back to English with his heavy, pondering accent he spoke directly to her. "Madamoiselle, I apologise greatly for your witnessing that brutality. Is this your ring?" he said holding it up for her to look at. "That man I know, runs a large gang of child thieves who regularly steal from kind-natured aristocrats such as yourself.... However he is also rather useful as an informant and I am willing to allow him to live his life of crime as long as he treats the children relatively well and doesn't steal too much whilst I am around." she'd probably consider him a devil for that remark, but he cared not. If he was to arrest every criminal he met, the entire aristocracy would languish in jail and he himself would be alongside them.

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Niamh walked alongside him, keeping up with his pace became harder after a while in heels, but she simply doubled her steps to match him. She almost tripped at one point, on a broken stone, but she regained her balance as quickly as she had lost it. Niamh hoped no one had caught her little mishap but there was no telling. The way he manoeuvred the streets was far more efficient than Niamh could ever be. Even now she felt lost in the streets. She'd forgotten the turns they had taken. She was amazed at how people moved away for him. He must have been known in these parts by the people. He seemed to know where he was going, so Niamh simply followed. He was obviously pretty certain of who he was going after, and Niamh wondered why he would be certain. Who did the older man know? She pondered over it in her mind, and kept her light eyes on him. If she lost sight of him then she'd be lost. It was a good thing that Niamh had been trained – albeit by an amatuer – in fencing, and therefore did have some stamina to her, enough that she was able to keep up with him without breaking a sweat. She had little muscle on her skeleton, and what she did have, was mostly sinewy and lacking, but she did have money to pay people to carry her bags for her. So really she had no need for physical strength. Niamh shifted her shoulder up and down, and tugged her long hair over one shoulder, exposing one side of her pale neck. Her pale features coupled with her dark hair, made her skin look even lighter. She could faintly smell her perfume, which had been dabbed on her wrist that morning. She watched the way Gustave moved, and followed him. She could do very little else. She licked her lips, which looked a slightly dusty pink from lack of drink. She wondered where she may get a drink around the area, but was not too fussed. She was not particularly thirsty. She blinked away an eyelash that clung awkwardly to the rest of her lashes, and turned her gaze to either side of her, before gazing at Gustave again. She was rather impressed that he would go to such lengths for her. She could not say she knew many police officers, but she did not believe they would try to find a mere ring, and yet he was trying. She smiled softly at his back. She ran her fingers through her hair, and then caressed the skin of each digit. As Gustave rounded the corner, she quickly followed, thrusting her body in the same direction. Her eyes landed on a second person, a man who did not look as... safe... as Gustave did. Especially in comparison. She looked back at Gustave to see a rage in his face. There was something fierce and frightening in his expression. Niamh reminded herself that his rage was not towards her, and was mollified. She glanced away to look at the retreating child and then back at the Sergeant and the thief. He seemed to be a despicable man – the thief that was. She gasped as the Sergeant grasped the mans collar, and a hand covered her mouth, then slid down to her own collarbone, and rested there. She did not reply to the man, simply nodded and scrunched her nose at it. Niamh listened to the conversation, but most of it went over her head. She understood the word ring, and a few other words, but without the meaning of the rest of the words, it meant nothing to Niamh. She was rather repulsed by Tibaults toothless grin, and found herself stepping back a step. Niamh had never seen such violence, and was rather shocked by the display. She straightened herself up, and looked straight at Gustave as he gestured to herself. She flinched at the sound of the man hitting the wall. “Sir” she started then stopped, and stayed quiet. She looked away as he punched the man, and simply stared behind them, in the direction of where they had come from. The sound of approaching footsteps had Niamh turning around. She tried her best not to look at the rather pitiful looking man on the floor. She nodded. “Yes, that is my ring” she smiled up at him, choosing to forget the violence she had witnessed. “It is easily forgotten” she lied. She listened to what he had to say “he uses children?” she asked, completely horrified by this. No child should have to answer to a man like that. “I suppose that is the lesser of two evils; someone once told me, we must do what we think is right and damn the consequences” she mused, with a thoughtful look on her face. “If you believe that, using him as an informant is right then I shall think it right to” she nodded after a moment, willing to believe it. “As long as the children are being treated okay” she added. That was the main thing Niamh would worry about; the children. Niamh could have named a few of her peers who were just as bad as the thief. There had been a rape scandal involving one of her classmates and an serving girl. Of course the boy had bought his way out of the charge, but Niamh had always thought it true.

[atrb=width,100] words , 917 words tagged , Gustave Desjardins notes ,

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[gustave]

Gustave had ignored the gentle aristocrat as he had thrown that hammer of a fist into Tibault's gut, he had not turned to look at her as she had looked away. Such a woman would never be able to face the harshness of the reality that she had brought herself into, Gustave was very well aware that Aristocrats particularly the women tended to be extremely forgiving with the street children, the petty thieves, those that stole seemingly only to attain enough wealth simply to eat and perhaps even to afford a warm bed for the night. Gustave had seen looks such as the one Niamh held on her face before, he had seen them as they gave alms to the poor that littered the streets like decaying leaves after autumn. Gustave reminded himself that these people lived pampered lives of rich, silken clothes, good meals, nice, feathery beds. So far removed from the poor that outnumbered them thousands to one that they simply could not face that they had so much when so many had so little.

If that was the way of the world then Gustave would maintain that status quo, he had lived through the French Revolution, the gutting of so many good men simply because of their wealth. Surely just as the poor were born as poor men, the rich were born as rich men and therefore despite the disparages in money and status, did not deserve to die for what they were born into? Gustave simply sighed through his nose quietly. He had little time for such inner philosophical discussions when his profession required him to be watchful at all times. He heard footsteps and his face creased into that recognizably intelligent frown, breathing through his nose and looking around the frown remained on his visage as a simple down-turned C that offered both defiance and indeed a sort of melancholy.

For Gustave this was daily life, patrolling this maze of back-streets and alleys, chasing criminals who dared try and evade the law. For what was he now but a mouthpiece for the hated Government, a face for the poor to focus their hatred and anger at. He cared not for those insulting terms, he was a man also and he had feelings also and if he would have his way he would turn the King and his cronies over to the poor without a second thought. Not to usher in a new age of Republicanism, more as a method of furthering Gustave's own plans. For if the King was to perish against the oncoming tide of aristocratic hatred, perhaps Gustave a respected and decorated soldier would be given some new position, something more meaningful.

He looked at the woman and smiled a soft smile. "The children are treated like dogs Madame, there is no service in place for them to go, so like their foul parents, they turn to a life of crime to sustain themselves. They can hardly be blamed for wishing better on themselves." he nodded primly. " 'Owever I can tell just by the look of relief upon your face that the ring was indeed important to you.... hence why I went to effort to find it." he began to walk slowly back down the street, much slower than he had before, grey eyes passed over doorways and windows making sure there was no one to block or waylay them. His saber slapped against his left hip, he turned back to face the aristocrat. "Allow me to escort you back to where you were stood before Madame.... I fear my duties may carry elsewhere soon." he began to whistle as he walked slowly and leisurely almost.

For Gustave held no fear of the street, as the street held complete fear of him.

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Sliding the ring back onto her right hand, she smiled at the sight of the ring in it's rightful place and then held her hands together. Niamh swallowed down the saliva in her mouth, while she acted tough, when it came to it, Niamh was quite a soft person. She had not seen the roughness of the streets, not like this. She bit down on her lip, and stared up at Gustave. “You are tough aren't you monsieur?” she watched him with large eyes, her gaze wandered down to his hands. She almost reached to touch his hands, wondering what such violent hands felt like, but settled for balling her hands into fists at her sides. She took in a few quick breaths, before her breathing softened and shallowed out. She plucked at an stray thread in her dress. Niamh was unused to the streets and the violence, while she liked to explore paris, usually she kept to the cleaner parts. She stared up at Gustave admiringly as one might of a hero. He had gone out of his way to help Niamh and Niamh was incredibly grateful for it. Niamh ducked her head, to stare at the hem of her dress. She closed her eyes for a moment, collecting her emotions together, and then fluttered her eyelids open, and pursed her lips Stepping forwards, she glanced up from her under lashes to look at Gustave's face, which was once again frowning. She held a finger to her bottom lip, teeth gently nibbling at her nail with her pearly front teeth. She bit down on the skin on her finger and hissed lightly. Dropping her finger from her mouth, she shook her head, which shifted her hair so that it fell over her face, disrupting her vision, and almost acting like an veil. Tipping her head down further did not help, it just allowed her hair to slide over her shoulders and over her chest. As Gustave spoke to her, she pushed her hair from her face to look at him, “Dogs?” she repeated. She sighed sadly at his words, but gave Gustave a small smile, she thought it was nice seeing him smile. She nodded, “they do not know any better, and that is sadly not there fault” she agreed with him, it was not their fault that they were born poor and in order to survive had to steal from someone like herself to live. She settled at his pace beside him, feeling far more comfortable walking at the slower pace. When he spoke about how the ring was important to her, she stared up at him, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him in a hug. He was right, the ring was important to Niamh, her mother had had it before her, and she couldn't help but want to hold on to a reminder of how her mother once was. Her mother had once been beautiful, and kind and so lively, now she was just a shell. Niamh nodded at him, “I would like that” she told him, though she was not looking forward to the prospect of walking alone again. Niamh was enjoying his company despite the roughness and violence she had just observed, he was quite remarkable. “You will allow me to repay you somehow, will you not Monsieur?” she asked him, as they walked. She felt as if she should show her gratitude somehow, though she did not know how. Niamh smiled up at him, “I understand Sergeant, you must do your job” she spoke, his job was an important one, and though Niamh had no job, she did understand.

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[gustave]

He watched as she placed the ring back on her finger and it reminded him of something, some deep memory lodged in his subconscious that held there and gripped his thoughts briefly. Buried beneath all the flashes of violence; the rolling crackle of muskets, the explosions of canon fire, the brief ringing in his ears as he marched on through the harsh grating sound of battle. Something deep and unsettling was buried there, a passion that he had explored once and failed to follow to it's fruition. It was a passion that had claimed many sleepless nights, lead to many soft encounters, had endeared him to a people he had seen through red tinted spectacles. It was love. Love he held for an English-woman long since past into the very obscurity of time.

Even so Gustave's heart ached for her, it begged for her and wished she was here, cradling his head in her lithe arms, stroking his bearded face with her perfectly soft fingertips. He could feel her skin beneath his fingers and his heart wanted her to return to him as perfect as she had been the last time he had seen her. He observed the woman again, not even giving her words a second thought. "Oui Madamoiselle, one must be 'tough' so to speak, to maintain any sort of order on the streets of this fair city." his brown eyebrows narrowed over the sea grey eyes as he looked upwards briefly. "Some believe that God have forsaken them.... per'aps he 'as indeed my lady, I believe that in these streets God truly does not exist any longer... so I must be hard of heart and strong of arm to keep the criminals were they belong."

His heart however ached still for the English-woman of ages past, Gustave wondered if she had stayed would his own daughter have grown beautiful and kind and caring or would she have become embittered with the streets of Paris like her Father, perhaps she would have come to hate everything about where she would have lived. Perhaps if her and her mother had been there still... Darlene and Aislinn... they would have stopped him from marching to Waterloo to face down the impossible odds and follow his Emperor one last time. Perhaps they would have triumphed and fought on and won and succeeded and perhaps he would have returned to Paris a celebrated man and perhaps he could have married her.

The Free spirit and he the soldier. They could have had so much more than what they simply had, he could have given her the world. The stars, the Sun, the moon! He would have fought tooth and nail for that English woman. Yet she had left before he had even had a chance to say goodbye. One year she was there, the next somehow back in England with not a word to say back to him, not a letter, not even a few scribbled words on paper for him to read and cry over. So in return he had shed no tears and he had held no feeling allowed no enclave of love for her to remain in him for it was purged with the help of the bottle and of the bartender.

He had cleaned himself of love and yet that small gesture of a rich stranger placing a ring back on her finger, had rumbled such deep-set feelings could only bode ill for the Sargent as he maintained his slow, pondering pace. Much like his heavily accented English, each step fell with that heavy weight ontop of it. Muscle bulged against the seams of his uniform and those grey eyes and heavy hands did little to hide the violent nature of his true personality, the beast that lurked inside him and threatened to overrun his consciousness at any possible moment.

He listened to her speak and nodded to show he was listening whilst his eyes moved enquiringly and almost with a hint of near childlike curiosity scanning the dirtied faces that peered out and rapidly withdrew as he passed. He checked occasionally to make sure the woman was still behind him. The woman who had reminded him of the love of his life, yet not in a similar manner, there were differences in appearance and mannerism that seemed to be inherited from most likely her father.

Gustave responded to her in a rough manner that seemed rather unbefitting to address a young lady of a wealthy manner. "The children are treated like dogs, for they act like dogs... they roam the streets in packs victimizing any and all. Even those who wish to aid them." he shook his head as he passed a cowering dog which whimpered as the shadow of the huge man passed over it. They returned to the main street and he stood there briefly and looked at her curiously. She bore resemblance to Aislinn, in the cheekbones and the eyes.... it was the hair as well. Gustave looked the woman over carefully and the nodded as if confirming something for himself, nodding he looked around the street as if to make sure it was safe. "It was very nice to meet you Madame... but if you'll excuse me I'll be on my way." he waited a little impatiently for her dismissal.

[nightingale]

s h o u ld i g i v e u p o r s h o u l d i

just keep chasing pavements even though it

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[atrb=width,240] Niamh's fingers flex and straighten out, before settling on a fist and placed them by her side. Niamh watched Gustave's face, wondering what may have been going through his mind. Her fingers played with the ring on her finger, twisting it around her finger. Niamh's gaze kept flashing behind her, as if she were worried someone would take her ring once more, but with Gustave she was sure that nothing bad could happen. In fact his presence was rather comforting. She listened to Gustave speak, and almost asked him to call her Niamh, but kept her mouth shut. She nodded at his words and carefully formed a reply. “I do not believe god has forsaken the streets. At least I would like to believe it” Niamh sighed softly. “I like to think that god will take pity on the poor unfortunate souls here.” she shook her head and bit into her bottom lip. Niamh breathed in and out daintily and her breathing softened out. She held her hand to her rib cage, feeling her hands rise and fall. “You do well to keep them in their place. You must have one never ending job” Niamh wondered whether the world would ever fail to need people to keep the lawless in place. She doubted that time would ever come. Not in her lifetime anyway. She always wondered about god. Why would god let those poor people starve if everyone was equal? There was something in the logic of religion that did not sit right with Niamh. Niamh could not profess to be entirely religious. Nor did she profess to entirely believe in it. Sighing Niamh took her thoughts away from the stupidities of the Christian religion. She looked up at Gustave and then to the street they were walking down, she often wished she were able to read minds. The lack of conversation was slightly unsettling for Niamh. Niamh was not the silent type at all. She loved to talk and discuss and just be in someones company and be able to talk. She wondered whether there was someone he could go home to and simply vent to. Didn't everyone need someone like that. Niamh did. Maybe others were different and didn't need that. She tugged at the curls in her long brunette hair and looked up at him. Each time she dropped a few strands, she picked up another lock. She smiled up at him. Niamh was impressed by the older man, who'd saved her ring from the rather despicable thief. She cleared her throat and nodded, though her eyes narrowed whether in disgust or pity she could not tell, maybe both. She did not know what to say. “But they still live that is something, they have not ceased to breath yet” she sighed. When Gustave told her he had to leave, Niamh tried not to look too disapointed, she understood that he had to do his job, but she was rather liked having the company. “Of course Monsieur nice to meet you too, Au Revoir dear Sergeant” she smiled, “I think I shall go home now” Niamh smiled brightly, and hurried off in the direction of her and her brothers home.

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[msieurthernadier]

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