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Meteorite
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2011
The thick forest surrounding Chateau Delacroix painted a stunning picture of autumn, the numerous vibrant leaves falling to the ground one by one in the cool breeze. Had Antoine Delacroix, more properly known as Comte Delacroix owing to his noble family, bothered to look out from the barred third story windows of his home he probably would have noticed, but he was far too concerned with the work in front of him. He sat at a massive oak desk in his study, an ever growing pile of pages resting somewhat haphazardly near the lefthand corner. A single hand dipped a quill furiously into the inkwell before he took it to a fresh page, an expression of bliss on the twenty seven year old's face as he added to the story, all the while softly humming a favorite piece of music. Though he most often wrote of scenarios which only played out in his mind, this time he had been working on something based firmly in reality, the memory of which was still fresh in his mind. He paused from the writing only to scratch at his week-old black beard, which brought him no end of misery. Until recently he had been allowed to shave, but there had been an incident which had prompted the guardsman to take away his razors. Now they shaved him but once a week.
It was exactly that incident which had prompted him to write this particular story, which he had tentatively titled "The Unhappy Tale of Mademoiselle Laurent." It was, in short, the story of a maid who's master was of foul temperament and violent persuasion. The unfortunate maid had entered her master's chamber unannounced as he painted and, as punishment, he saw fit to take to her with a razor. There was more to the story, of course, but that was the gist of it. The true events were not exactly the same. Comte Delacroix was not particularly foul tempered, and the maid's intrusion on him while he painted did not anger him in the slightest. He simply wanted to create art of a different medium. "To use her blood as paint and flesh as canvas" was what he had told one of the guards. It was those exact words, in fact, which lead to the formation of a dark and painful ring around one of his piercing blue eyes. It would only be temporary, along with the irritating beard, but his memory of the event would be forever, as would the fictionalized version he was so eager to put down on the page. As for the fate of the real life Mademoiselle Laurent he could only guess. She certainly wouldn't be working at the chateau anymore. The thought caused him to cease his humming long enough for a small chuckle.
It was both his writing and his deeds which had caused him to be locked away, though his family could not bare to share lineage with a criminal. So a compromise was made. Antoine would be placed under house arrest for life in his secluded chateau, hidden away from the eyes of the decent people of France, and his family could simply forget about him. But even now, confined as he was to the third floor he still wrote, as though the beating of his heart depended on it, of twisted depravities. And perhaps less encouraging to most God fearing citizens was the popularity of his writing, illegal though it was to purchase, sell or own. Perversion would always have an audience, no matter how dark it was.
The stairs leading up to his third floor prison ended in a small lounge type room with a single door leading to his actual quarters. The old door had been replaced with one of heavy iron, covered in locks, with a small rectangular hole at the top which could be opened and closed on either side for purposes of communication, and a larger hatch at the bottom, only accessible from outside, through which food and other goods could be passed in or dirty linens and scrap passed out. He often made sure the linens were extra stained to torment whoever had the displeasure of removing them, much to his delight. The man had sick taste in everything, and humor was among them.
Today there would be a new servant, and the guards had done everything in their power to convince him to simply leave the girl be. They had asked, begged and threatened, everything from one extreme to the other, that he at least make an attempt at being decent, lest he find himself without any servants at all. And so the Comte had sworn to God Almighty he would treat her in a virtuous and respectable manner. It was a sure sign that he had no intention of doing so. To call him an unbeliever would do him no justice. He was, quite simply, a heretic of the worst kind and he reveled in this fact. The new girl would be spared nothing, and as the last bit of black ink dried on the page to finalize his story the humming stopped. The third floor fell silent save for the rustling of paper as he neatly put the pages in their proper order. He did so hope the new maid had enough education to read. If not, he would have to teach her.
It was exactly that incident which had prompted him to write this particular story, which he had tentatively titled "The Unhappy Tale of Mademoiselle Laurent." It was, in short, the story of a maid who's master was of foul temperament and violent persuasion. The unfortunate maid had entered her master's chamber unannounced as he painted and, as punishment, he saw fit to take to her with a razor. There was more to the story, of course, but that was the gist of it. The true events were not exactly the same. Comte Delacroix was not particularly foul tempered, and the maid's intrusion on him while he painted did not anger him in the slightest. He simply wanted to create art of a different medium. "To use her blood as paint and flesh as canvas" was what he had told one of the guards. It was those exact words, in fact, which lead to the formation of a dark and painful ring around one of his piercing blue eyes. It would only be temporary, along with the irritating beard, but his memory of the event would be forever, as would the fictionalized version he was so eager to put down on the page. As for the fate of the real life Mademoiselle Laurent he could only guess. She certainly wouldn't be working at the chateau anymore. The thought caused him to cease his humming long enough for a small chuckle.
It was both his writing and his deeds which had caused him to be locked away, though his family could not bare to share lineage with a criminal. So a compromise was made. Antoine would be placed under house arrest for life in his secluded chateau, hidden away from the eyes of the decent people of France, and his family could simply forget about him. But even now, confined as he was to the third floor he still wrote, as though the beating of his heart depended on it, of twisted depravities. And perhaps less encouraging to most God fearing citizens was the popularity of his writing, illegal though it was to purchase, sell or own. Perversion would always have an audience, no matter how dark it was.
The stairs leading up to his third floor prison ended in a small lounge type room with a single door leading to his actual quarters. The old door had been replaced with one of heavy iron, covered in locks, with a small rectangular hole at the top which could be opened and closed on either side for purposes of communication, and a larger hatch at the bottom, only accessible from outside, through which food and other goods could be passed in or dirty linens and scrap passed out. He often made sure the linens were extra stained to torment whoever had the displeasure of removing them, much to his delight. The man had sick taste in everything, and humor was among them.
Today there would be a new servant, and the guards had done everything in their power to convince him to simply leave the girl be. They had asked, begged and threatened, everything from one extreme to the other, that he at least make an attempt at being decent, lest he find himself without any servants at all. And so the Comte had sworn to God Almighty he would treat her in a virtuous and respectable manner. It was a sure sign that he had no intention of doing so. To call him an unbeliever would do him no justice. He was, quite simply, a heretic of the worst kind and he reveled in this fact. The new girl would be spared nothing, and as the last bit of black ink dried on the page to finalize his story the humming stopped. The third floor fell silent save for the rustling of paper as he neatly put the pages in their proper order. He did so hope the new maid had enough education to read. If not, he would have to teach her.