THE NEMESIS

Players:

   Jean-Claude Leroux - Cyrrise

   Gustav Dupr� - Kitana

<Leroux>

Citoyen Leroux quickly made his way back to the Rue de Planchette, and made a sweep of the streets nearby, seeing no one who would pass for a aristo vicomte.  Frowning slightly, Leroux continued his original journey to Mother Theot's, going over the details of the young opera singer's narrative.  A young vicomte would be choice pickings now streets like these, anyone wanting to pick up a quick buck would pick him off quickly.  It was likely, that the girl's fiancee was dangling from a lamppost somewhere. 

Leroux entered the antechamber of Mother Th�ot's apartment, to the relatively cheerful comments of the women passed their time in it waiting their turn to speak to the witch. The antechamber reflected the fashion and architecture that would soon become the fashion of Paris in Revolution, grey-washed walls streaked with grime, its worm-eaten benches and tarnished chandelier, women in dirty, tattered shifts who seemed to sneer even when they smiled.  Leroux saw it all and knew that things would only worse in this state of equality and fraternity.  The women greeted him in a relatively friendly fashion, after all it was citoyen Leroux, a popular and good patriot who seemed to have the power to shift the mood of a crowd to meet his purposes.

 The women spoke in excited toned as Leroux entered. �You missed quite a show this morning, citoyen Leroux.�

�Did I now, Citoyenne Merot?  Tell me what I missed!� Leroux responded in good humour.

�A cursed aristo vicomte was arrested here this morning!  In this very room!�

�Really? Most interesting news,� Leroux smiled, he sat and let the women fill him in on the details they knew.  After a couple of hours, when the topic pettered out and the women received what they desired and left, Leroux excused himself on the pretext of going to get a drink and left.  Christine�s story seemed to be getting more and more interesting.

 <Dupr�>

The woman's head lay heavily upon his chest and he could feel her heavy breathing on his skin, golden hair spilled over her face and from his advantage point he could almost fantasize that she was that beautiful siren from his youth instead of a paid woman.  It was always her face he pictured, her sparkling blue eyes, her pouty lips, her voice whispering whispering in his ear� and these whore didn�t care who�s face their clients pictured as they rendered their services, they only cared about the pay.  It seemed in these days whores took less effort in the up-keep of their appearances, he forced this one to wash before he would let her touch him.  Under the grime she was rather plain, pretty by the standards of the women in her calling and hardly more that fifteen or sixteen, and grateful for the money he offered.  Once the charm of the moment had passed Citoyen Dupr� rolled the girl off him and washed himself.

 The girl stirred, rolled over, attempted to untangle herself from the twisted bed sheets. Her long, thin arm flailed for the warm body next to her, but there was nothing. She brush her golden tress from her face and looked up at her patron. He was standing with his back to her, dressed now entirely in black.  His wavy chestnut hair lay untied around his broad shoulders, framing his chiseled features -- the piercing ocean blue eyes, narrow nose, sensual lips, angular cheekbones and proud chin.  He was bent over slightly, looking through his wallet out of which he pulled a few sous and threw them on the bed before her.  She noted the contained in the wallet, had she awoken earlier she might have stolen away with it, but now was she willing to work for as much of it she could acquire.  She threw aside the sheets to give her client a full view of the wares she offered and  stretched her arms out to him.  "Don�t go, M. Cristof!" she implored.  He regarded her with a bland expression.  �I can make you forget your worries� if you stay.�  She pulled back her shoulder and look as seductive as possible.

 His eyebrow rose slightly, "Where did you hear that name, little Citoyenne?� There was a cold menancing tone to his voice.  �My name is Dupr�.� 

 The girl shrank back.  �F-forgive me, citoyen! Odette told me that she remembered you from Bolougne and told me what you would like!  Perhaps she mistook you for another!� 

 "Now, my dear," he turned towards her again, sat on the edge of the bed, and grabbed her face.  "I know you will be most cautious with that name, won�t you?� The girl nodded mutely.  �Now where is dear old Odette?�

 �At the end of the hall,� the girl whisper.  Citoyen Dupr� smiled and he leaned in close and put a finger under her chin, forcing her to look him straight in the eyes. The girl leaned up tentatively to kiss him.  He did not resist, but instead shifted himself on top of her.  The poor, foolish girl never saw the dagger coming, all she felt was a sudden stab of horrible pain underneath her ribcage. Her breath caught in her throat choking out her last words.  Dupr� pushed the dagger up further, then twisted his wrist to opened up the wound and pulled the blade out.  He watched as her body twitched beneath him and the light faded from her eyes.  The moment she had said that name her fate was sealed, it was her life or his � her was that of a meaningless gutter snipe while through his veins course the blood of conquerors, noble men who would eventually return to power in twisted country. 

 He collected his belongings, left the money on the bed, and left the room, closing the door behind him.  With wide strides he slipped down the hall to Odette�s room, when she open the door he didn�t recognized her specifically, she too possessed the golden hair and blue eyes that were a necessity in his partners, with out a word he plunged the dagger in the girls throat and watched her fall to the floor before him, he knelt down and wiped his dagger on her robes. 

 He slipped down the staircase and out the back, through a seedy looking tavern where dirty citizens of the Republican drank and swore and gambled, as he was exiting through the doors he heard a scream from behind him, but once he was out the door he slipped away into the crowd.

<Leroux>

They claimed Citoyen Leroux had the Devil's own luck, he had joined a game of chance at a table in the corner of le Trois Rates and had succeeding in relieving the purses of several of the patrons.  Even whilest losing a considerable sum, Leroux's witty banter, kept the losers in a peaceful state of mind.  Who could stay angry at a good patriot like Leroux, his earning were usually spent on liberal libations for those present, so that even many of those who had just lost to him joined in cheering him on. 

"Careful, Marre!  Leroux here has sold his soul for a winning streak tonight!"

"Thirteen and twelve! -- Twenty-five! Name of a name!"

"You win again, Leroux!  Leroux has won again!"  A cheer went up around the bar.

"Anymore takers? No?"

"Another round!"

"Viva Leroux!" the crowd cried.

"Not against that devil!  Hey, Leroux! what is your secret?  It is true you sold your soul in exchange for the Devil's luck as chance?"

"At chance? No." Leroux shouted back.  His keen eyes scanned the crowd, searching.  An interesting mystery have deposited itself in his lap and he searched for a key to solving it.  His eyes were drawn to a figure who had entered through the backdoor from the brothel and seemed make a quick path to the front door.  "My price was most specific, Citoyen Marre!"  The form appeared most familiar, even if the man's face was directed away from him.

"What was that, Leroux?"

The man turned his head quickly to look over his shoulder, long enough for Leroux to see his face and recognize him.  Leroux stood quickly, grabbing his coat. "The bargain was that even if I don't win, I'll never lose," Leroux said, not taking his cold eyes off the retreating figure.  Leroux quickly weaved through the crowd towards the fleeing form, when a murderous scream was heard from the brothel.  Leroux whipped his head around to the noise and heard the click of the door.  When he turned back, the man had already passed through the front entrance.  Leroux ran out and scanned the crowded streets the man had disappeared without a sign. 

Leroux reentered the tavern and followed the crowd into the brothel, up the stairs, past hysterical half-dressed women and saw a woman lying in a doorway in a pool of blood.  At the other end of the hallway a group of men crowd a door, to which Leroux guided his foot steps.  Inside a young girl lay on a blood soaked bed.  Leroux  ordered one of the men present to summon an officer, then turned to the woman who owned the house, "What was the name of the man who was just here?"

"I do not know his name!" she replied.  No matter, Leroux did.  He knew that man very well.  He still lived... for now.

<Dupr� >

Dupr� felt no pity for the whores he had left behind.  France had become a place where it was kill or be killed.  They had stumbled close to his truth... too close.  They might have turned him in for reward, or attempted to blackmail him.  He would not let a couple of nameless whores have so much control over him, creatures like those could be purchased for a crust of bread these days.  They were expendable and replaceable... their one redeeming feature was the proximity of their resemblance to her.  They could never be her, despite how much he wished otherwise.  She was beyond him now, beyond the surly bond of earth� existing only in memory.  An angel in spirit as she had been in flesh. 

She haunted him now as she haunted him then, he could almost hear the echo of her musical laugh, a beauty that had not seen since Helen.  Curves to inspire the pope to sinful thoughts � he could have built temples in homage to her perfect body.  In the sunlight her hair was like flame, her eyes sparkling.  She tortured him by rejecting his proposals, by brushing off his advances� as if she were a queen.

But then she was a queen� that night she was a goddess!  They worshipped her that night as their goddess of love.  That dress which clung tightly to her body � the angels must have wept to see her.  He remembered rutting furiously with some local wench, half-drunk and willing to wrap her thighs around any man, he bore into her until she screamed in pain.  That was the same night that he set his claim on her, winning her with a trinket � a locket.

Dupr� scowled at the memory of her in that upstarts arms when she was meant to be his!  He made his way past the Place du Greve, was it not less than a month ago that his own mother met her end there, denounced, tried, and placed at Samson�s mercy.  He would not be so unfortunate, the blood of his ancestors would be passed on.  She was meant to be the vessel through which his family line was to continue, might have been� There was that one night.  White, silken flesh.  The peaks and valleys to explore, oh brave new world!  The heat of her!  How could she not understand she belonged to him!

For a moment as he killed that whore, she appeared before him gasping for life.  Was that how it happened?  He�d have to be more careful, even the thought of being reunited with her was worth his own precious life.  He kept his head down and hurried back to his apartment.  Best to stay hidden.

 This thread continues in All I Ask