Post by Guest on Nov 11, 2009 23:28:01 GMT
Great app, you have a nice ability for these things. More than accepted 
and I know you are already a member so there is no need to go through all the formalities of welcoming you and telling you if you have questions and all that jazz.
-JT
Account E-Mail: EDITED OUT!
Name: Victoire Gaëlle Beaudoin
Nationality: French
Character History:
Victoire was born to Gaspard Beaudoin and Apolline Canet one warm September’s evening in 1921, in a house by the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She belonged to a prosperous and reputable family, with her father working in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs as an ambassador to Berlin, while her mother was engaged to the private matters at home, for they came from the elite classes of French society, in which the prevailing attitude was one of sneering antipathy towards work, especially when none was needed for they were quite affluent. Apolline Canet was far from treating work in such a disgraceful manner, as she was an understanding and kind-hearted woman, but on the grounds that she had been raised as an aristocrat and had furthermore made a well-respected marriage to an equally wealthy man, it would be not only redundant but also frowned upon the higher society, and rightfully so. Despite the fact Victoire was loved as their child, she could not help but feel when looking at her mother’s eyes how she was blamed for the death of her brother; Guillaume had died of typhus at the age of ten, when Victoire had been seven years old.
Her father tried to overcome his grief but he could never look at her the same way; to have lost your son was terrible as compared to a daughter, obviously. He had had great plans for Guillaume, and then had to compromise with the daughter. The night Guillaume had perished in his bed, a time during which their father took the news unbearably, Victoire secretly heard him clearly shout at his wife, “Why him! Why him! It should have been her – why my boy! It should have been the girl! The devil did this! He took the wrong child!” This traumatized Victoire for the rest of her life. Her father had, henceforth, two sides: one was the loving father who still felt for his daughter (however much in a dull manner) and encouraged her in her hobbies, while whenever times of misery and bitterness overpowered him, which was quite often, he was consumed by thoughts of his daughter’s worthlessness (due to the fact that she – simply enough – was a woman, and what on earth could women do? They could not join the military, they could not become great and inspiring generals as Gaspard had aspired his son to be, she would just be a lady of society). At times he would praise Victoire for her talents, and many others he would bluntly criticize her of being ‘useless’, ‘foolish’ and ‘insignificant’. This heavily polarizing attitude would in turn have a tremendous effect on Victoire, on a negative aspect mostly. Her mother empathized with her, and did dote on her daughter, which, by contrast to the father’s usual habits, added fuel to the already polarized fire.
Nevertheless, Victoire was sent to the most renowned female private schools, as her parents still wanted to cultivate her spirit and mind considerably (and what would society think if they had not? Gaspard hated to think he would have a daughter others would consider idiotic, which, after losing a son, was the worst possible thing) and, as proper society required, she learned foreign languages – notably English and Italian, while she already knew German from roots she had – and having shown at an early age avid interest for the arts, she attended a school of art, in which she studied drama, dance and music.
At the age of nine years old, she woke up in their house’s basement with a terrible migraine and with several wounds in her body, while shocked to see her mother lying unconscious on the floor next to her. She never to this day discovered what happened back then, but she grieved her mother’s death most profoundly. Many years later, her father married another woman, Yvette Prideux; he did not love but only respected her, which in a marriage can be a disastrous recipe. He wanted a son from her, she simply wanted a comfortable and quiet life (while she also shared that respect for him). Yvette was fond of Victoire and wished to make her a ‘woman of society’ – to which the latter responded to with disgust and indignation. In 1938 she attended the University of Paris 1 Sorbonne, studying the arts, but also took programmes of French Literature and Philosophy. However, she never managed to graduate, as during the Nazi invasion of France in 1940, during her third and final year, the University of Paris was closed.
When the Second World War began, due to political problems that occurred, her father was imprisoned in Berlin, and Yvette decided to follow him, whereas demanding of Victoire to immediately vacate Paris secretly through some contacts she had, military men who would be able to help Victoire escape. However, she never left. She did not wish to be a coward and run for her life, instead resolving to stay behind to face the pain and anguish along with everyone else, and embrace France during that difficult period. Her life was altered dramatically. She rented a cheap, small and cold lodging in Montmartre and to cater for her needs she found work in a cabaret, the Folies–Bergère. She considered this awfully beneath her quality, with her (non-awarded) University degree and knowledge of the arts, to engage herself in such activities, by becoming a simple show girl. However, she thought the architecture of aesthetic style, since Plumeret built it as an opera house, and when it was first launched on the 2nd May 1869 it featured operettas and comic operas, therefore it was at least not some cheap and bourgeois-inspiring place of entertainment. The music hall eventually would gain some respect for her once people like Charlie Chaplin and Maurice Chevalier made appearances there.
At any rate, she did not work in the cabaret for long, for, once Hitler upon occupation shut down cabarets and clubs, she was forced to perform underground in secret locations and with constantly changing passwords. She at times feels her heritage has been stained by the fact her grandmother from her mother’s side, Eleonore Herrmann, was German. She is awfully prejudiced of anything that is related to Germany and refuses to even purchase German products of any kind. She is fiery and passionate, has succumbed to the arts (as a form of refuge), and has offered herself, being of the female kind, to the entertainment of the brave male soldiers. She feels it is the only thing she can do for the country. She would have partaken in the French Resistance, had she thought it would actually change anything; she firmly believes it is only based on illusions and false hopes. She has not received news from Yvette for some time, not knowing whether she is still alive or dead.
She has at certain points estranged herself from people, preferring solitude and isolation, and thus replaced subjects with objects as a form of communication that all human beings crave. She is fond of beautiful objects, ardent on nature’s raw materials and is particularly morbid when it comes to death and blood. She sees mostly everything under an artistic perspective, adores mythic creatures (such as the Leviathan), and is absolutely consumed by films, books and music. She knows ballet and prefers heavy wooden furniture of the Baroque period rather than modernistic elements. She is also passionate about paintings and used to visit art galleries frequently, particularly admiring Picasso as an artist and human being (being in love with ‘Guernica’). She is a sensualist, a narcissist, a perfectionist, open-minded, free-spirited, but also extremely judgemental and fiercely protective.
She can be very arrogant and thoughtless on several occasions, as well as obstinate, by refusing to listen to other people’s opinions once she has set her own. She likes to punish herself for every of her wrongdoings; through being cruel to some animals (which she ironically adores) she is being cruel towards herself, wanting, feeling the need to feel pity for herself and anger at these actions. She has an unconscious drive to always punish herself for some unknown guilt. She can be scared of heights and desires to surpass this fear by walking near cliffs and precipices. Just as her father’s treatment, she is polarized and therefore unpredictable. While on one occasion she may appear calm and collected, she might out of the blue burst into an uncontrollable and fervent fit.
When she was younger she was scared of the night and the darkness; now she finds it beautiful and mystical, but still on some unconscious level bears that fear on some extent. She can become very insecure and think of herself as a complete failure, often hardly satisfied with herself and absolutely anything she engages herself to. Hence the polarizing: while during one moment she may arrogantly think of herself as superior from nature, the next one she is heartbroken by thoughts of her inferiority. She can be easily depressive and may be rather unstable. She is fond of injuries, loves the prospect of anguish and despair, people with psychopathological problems, philosophical questions with no answers. She often walked with her parents as a child to the Parc Monceau and liked to collect shells and pebbles from the beach, being a lover of nature and scenery. She likes to take pictures of anything she finds interesting, and now has a case of albums saved throughout the years. She once had everything, now she has absolutely nothing. At times days go by without food or warmth, coal or grain, or sunlight. She likes to close the drapes of the windows, pull the curtains and isolate herself from the rest of the world. Though in the cabaret underground people surround her, she feels alone.
Writing Sample:
Victoire was heading to the small and loathsomely cold garret she lodged in Monmartre, in the Rue de la Vieuville, not far from the Place de Abbesses, in which she often liked to resort to whenever she wanted to clear her mind away from the stress of her situation – which was rather often, truth be told. There was a strict 11 p.m curfew for Parisians, which had highly inconvenienced her, though she had of course to abide by the rules, or be otherwise arrested for her illegal action should she resolve to go against the regime (which would be foolish of her and anyone else, for that matter). Hitler had upon occupation immediately shut down cabarets and clubs, thus sending jazz underground, with regularly altering locations and passwords. Life was difficult for Parisians at this point in time, and Victoire was grasping from straws to keep her sanity together and survive through the period. And, oh how the Germans came and they forgot everything. Paris, the City of Light, the city of painters and all kinds of artists, Maurice Chevalier’s Paris, lovers kissing in the Seine River, the accordion making people dance in the ball musettes, the slow dances with the men smoking cigarettes and wearing berets, the Place de La Concorde, her very own Champs-Élysées, it was all gone. Paris belonged no more to the Parisians.
“Mademoiselle, dépêchez-vous s’il vous plaît! Le couvre-feu commence dans juste dix minutes!” a man’s voice was heard in the distance, and when Victoire turned around curiously, she saw the youthful face of a French official in his military uniform looking at her through kind and polite eyes, an expression of sweet tolerance in his courteous manners and refined facial features. Victoire blew the fume of her cigarette into the air, surveying him quietly and not speaking for several seconds, as though she was analyzing him from head to toe. “Je ne veux pas vous voir dans n’importe quel problème,” the young man continued, and daringly – though slowly – began to approach her.
(Translation: Miss, hurry up, please! Curfew begins in just ten minutes / I don’t wish to see you in any trouble)
Victoire smiled. “Vous croyez que je serai dans le pétrin si j’arrive à ma maison exactement une seconde après le couvre-feu ? Peut-être ils m’arrêteront ?” she provoked him, and then took another drag from her cigarette in a slow and smooth move, brushing her hands through her shoulders as the coldness seemed to be getting to her.
(Translation: You think I will be in trouble if I arrive at my house exactly one second after curfew? Perhaps they will arrest me?)
“Mademoiselle, je vous mendie,” the French official pleaded with her, feeling encouraged by her not pushing him immediately away into coming even closer to her; he was embarrassed, was probably several years younger than her, and from the looks of it knew absolutely nothing about politics and military demands or strategy. He was simply doing what he was being requested, and what he probably considered sane for his safety. “On ne devrait pas le traiter légèrement! Seulement hier ils ont arête Lefevre pour sortir les ordures la nuit et Desmarais pour ne pas fermer ses fenêtres. Les ordres sont des ordres. Ils doivent être obéis.”
(Translation: Miss, I’m begging you. This should not be treated lightly. Only yesterday they arrested Lefevre for taking out the garbage at night, and Desmarais for not shutting her windows. Orders are orders. They must be obeyed)
At this point Victoire looked at him with great interest, hardly in terms of his features or character rather than what his words revealed about his stance on the world. “Aimez-vous votre pays, Monsieur? Lutteriez-vous pour cela?” she asked curiously, now walking closer towards his direction herself, putting one hand inside the pocket of her brown, buttoned-up coat; she knit her eyebrows and awaited for his response almost with a hungry glare that came from the fact she would not take it well should he deny her words. She was hungry to find out the truth in his words, and thus her irises slightly widened in anticipation.
(Translation: Do you love your country, Mister? Would you fight for it?)
The young man was baffled. “Pourquoi – oui, évidemment je lutterais pour cela! Je lutte pour cela!” he defended himself passionately, and then a fiery smile rose up his lips, as young people were often prone to do whenever supporting their own beliefs and ideologies – if they had any. He seemed rather confused that he was to be asked this strange question from the young woman, but naturally would never refuse her an answer, especially when an answer was perfectly in order. He, perhaps, desired to impress her with his patriotism, but Victoire was otherwise disgusted by his posture and hypocritical proclamations - as she considered them. Immediately, the change in her facial features was made visible within a second.
(Translation: Why – yes, of course I would fight for it. I am fighting for it!)
“Par suivant environ les allemands? Leurs chiens le font!” she retorted back at him calmly, and then snorted unpleasantly.
(Translation: By following around the Germans? Their dogs do that!)
For several moments the man did not speak, but looked utterly shocked at her reaction. He stared at her almost in idiotic fashion, in utter disbelief, and until he decided to show her exactly how displeased and irritated he was by her (unjust, to him) behaviour, he frowned like a child. “Vous serez en retard – je suggère que vous repartez,” the French official told her through his gritted teeth, the smile vanished on the spot, his eyes cold and unresponsive. She considered his reaction as confirmation to her allegations, which had perhaps meant to provoke the truth out of him – but then again, he could always have denied it, could he not? But he chose to be duplicitous about it and play the patriotic man who sacrifices himself for the country. She resented that.
(Translation: You will be late - I suggest you move on)
“Je suggère que vous prenez un bain. Vous sentez comme un allemand,” she calmly responded to his rude manners, and without looking at him, she dropped the cigarette on the wet ground and extinguished it with the heel, as she then walked past him and into the darkness, leaving behind her the baffled French official – feeling not simply livid at her but also as though his pride had just been crushed. He clenched his fists, growled inside his throat, and then decisively marched towards the opposite direction, as though lingering any moment longer on that same spot would encourage him to report her.
(Translation: I suggest you take a bath. You smell like a German)
She had not managed to walk many feet away from the street she had come across the official (in her mind now visibly and palpably characterized as a traitor), when a sudden ruckus occurred to make her head turn immediately sideways, eyes wide open and her mouth slightly hanging in fear, stepping backwards as the thunderous noise of a German vehicle driven not far from her overfilled her: a bomb had been thrown into a cabaret – newly opened, Victoire had heard about it many a time – and made the building explode in hundreds little pieces, people shrieking in terror, the window shutters of the buildings surrounding the area reluctantly opened by the inhabitants who were burning with curiosity to know what had happened (the Germans ordering them to close them immediately or there would be consequences), women screaming in protest, cries, pain and anguish. Victoire was immobilize to the spot, as the scene in front of her eyes was one to catch anyone by terror. Several armoured French soldiers burst from the streets in defence of their city, shouting streams of invective at the Germans, but the invaders would not take this matter lightly. More shooting, fighting, and bodies were falling on the ground. Victoire’s heart was beating violently against her ribcage, as she stumbled backwards and supported herself against a tree’s trunk in the concrete pavement.
“Faites attention!” she heard a voice cry from the near distance, and soon enough the French official was running towards her. Once he arrived, she noticed his cheeks were flushed. “Sont vous d’accord?” he asked her breathlessly, and with concern perceivable in his eyes. She tried to breathe calmly, and though she should have been used to these attacks, each one was like the very first time.
(Translation: Look out! / Are you alright?)
Once she realized what was going on around her, once she actually understood it down to the marrow of her bone, she turned to look back at him, and an expression of disgust adorned her face, pushing his hand away from where he had touched her on the shoulder. He had even pulled out his rifle to protect her! She thought it so ridiculous. “Ne moi touchez pas! Vous n’avez aucun droit de me toucher! Ne moi suivez pas! Absentez-vous juste, je ne veux pas être protégé par les chiens allemands!” she shouted at him furiously, turned away and quickly walked away from him, head bowed against the wind, but always unable to let the screaming agony escape.
(Translation: Don’t touch me! You have no right to touch me! Don’t follow me! Just stay away, I don’t want to be protected by German dogs!)
and I know you are already a member so there is no need to go through all the formalities of welcoming you and telling you if you have questions and all that jazz.-JT
Account E-Mail: EDITED OUT!
Name: Victoire Gaëlle Beaudoin
Nationality: French
Character History:
Victoire was born to Gaspard Beaudoin and Apolline Canet one warm September’s evening in 1921, in a house by the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She belonged to a prosperous and reputable family, with her father working in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs as an ambassador to Berlin, while her mother was engaged to the private matters at home, for they came from the elite classes of French society, in which the prevailing attitude was one of sneering antipathy towards work, especially when none was needed for they were quite affluent. Apolline Canet was far from treating work in such a disgraceful manner, as she was an understanding and kind-hearted woman, but on the grounds that she had been raised as an aristocrat and had furthermore made a well-respected marriage to an equally wealthy man, it would be not only redundant but also frowned upon the higher society, and rightfully so. Despite the fact Victoire was loved as their child, she could not help but feel when looking at her mother’s eyes how she was blamed for the death of her brother; Guillaume had died of typhus at the age of ten, when Victoire had been seven years old.
Her father tried to overcome his grief but he could never look at her the same way; to have lost your son was terrible as compared to a daughter, obviously. He had had great plans for Guillaume, and then had to compromise with the daughter. The night Guillaume had perished in his bed, a time during which their father took the news unbearably, Victoire secretly heard him clearly shout at his wife, “Why him! Why him! It should have been her – why my boy! It should have been the girl! The devil did this! He took the wrong child!” This traumatized Victoire for the rest of her life. Her father had, henceforth, two sides: one was the loving father who still felt for his daughter (however much in a dull manner) and encouraged her in her hobbies, while whenever times of misery and bitterness overpowered him, which was quite often, he was consumed by thoughts of his daughter’s worthlessness (due to the fact that she – simply enough – was a woman, and what on earth could women do? They could not join the military, they could not become great and inspiring generals as Gaspard had aspired his son to be, she would just be a lady of society). At times he would praise Victoire for her talents, and many others he would bluntly criticize her of being ‘useless’, ‘foolish’ and ‘insignificant’. This heavily polarizing attitude would in turn have a tremendous effect on Victoire, on a negative aspect mostly. Her mother empathized with her, and did dote on her daughter, which, by contrast to the father’s usual habits, added fuel to the already polarized fire.
Nevertheless, Victoire was sent to the most renowned female private schools, as her parents still wanted to cultivate her spirit and mind considerably (and what would society think if they had not? Gaspard hated to think he would have a daughter others would consider idiotic, which, after losing a son, was the worst possible thing) and, as proper society required, she learned foreign languages – notably English and Italian, while she already knew German from roots she had – and having shown at an early age avid interest for the arts, she attended a school of art, in which she studied drama, dance and music.
At the age of nine years old, she woke up in their house’s basement with a terrible migraine and with several wounds in her body, while shocked to see her mother lying unconscious on the floor next to her. She never to this day discovered what happened back then, but she grieved her mother’s death most profoundly. Many years later, her father married another woman, Yvette Prideux; he did not love but only respected her, which in a marriage can be a disastrous recipe. He wanted a son from her, she simply wanted a comfortable and quiet life (while she also shared that respect for him). Yvette was fond of Victoire and wished to make her a ‘woman of society’ – to which the latter responded to with disgust and indignation. In 1938 she attended the University of Paris 1 Sorbonne, studying the arts, but also took programmes of French Literature and Philosophy. However, she never managed to graduate, as during the Nazi invasion of France in 1940, during her third and final year, the University of Paris was closed.
When the Second World War began, due to political problems that occurred, her father was imprisoned in Berlin, and Yvette decided to follow him, whereas demanding of Victoire to immediately vacate Paris secretly through some contacts she had, military men who would be able to help Victoire escape. However, she never left. She did not wish to be a coward and run for her life, instead resolving to stay behind to face the pain and anguish along with everyone else, and embrace France during that difficult period. Her life was altered dramatically. She rented a cheap, small and cold lodging in Montmartre and to cater for her needs she found work in a cabaret, the Folies–Bergère. She considered this awfully beneath her quality, with her (non-awarded) University degree and knowledge of the arts, to engage herself in such activities, by becoming a simple show girl. However, she thought the architecture of aesthetic style, since Plumeret built it as an opera house, and when it was first launched on the 2nd May 1869 it featured operettas and comic operas, therefore it was at least not some cheap and bourgeois-inspiring place of entertainment. The music hall eventually would gain some respect for her once people like Charlie Chaplin and Maurice Chevalier made appearances there.
At any rate, she did not work in the cabaret for long, for, once Hitler upon occupation shut down cabarets and clubs, she was forced to perform underground in secret locations and with constantly changing passwords. She at times feels her heritage has been stained by the fact her grandmother from her mother’s side, Eleonore Herrmann, was German. She is awfully prejudiced of anything that is related to Germany and refuses to even purchase German products of any kind. She is fiery and passionate, has succumbed to the arts (as a form of refuge), and has offered herself, being of the female kind, to the entertainment of the brave male soldiers. She feels it is the only thing she can do for the country. She would have partaken in the French Resistance, had she thought it would actually change anything; she firmly believes it is only based on illusions and false hopes. She has not received news from Yvette for some time, not knowing whether she is still alive or dead.
She has at certain points estranged herself from people, preferring solitude and isolation, and thus replaced subjects with objects as a form of communication that all human beings crave. She is fond of beautiful objects, ardent on nature’s raw materials and is particularly morbid when it comes to death and blood. She sees mostly everything under an artistic perspective, adores mythic creatures (such as the Leviathan), and is absolutely consumed by films, books and music. She knows ballet and prefers heavy wooden furniture of the Baroque period rather than modernistic elements. She is also passionate about paintings and used to visit art galleries frequently, particularly admiring Picasso as an artist and human being (being in love with ‘Guernica’). She is a sensualist, a narcissist, a perfectionist, open-minded, free-spirited, but also extremely judgemental and fiercely protective.
She can be very arrogant and thoughtless on several occasions, as well as obstinate, by refusing to listen to other people’s opinions once she has set her own. She likes to punish herself for every of her wrongdoings; through being cruel to some animals (which she ironically adores) she is being cruel towards herself, wanting, feeling the need to feel pity for herself and anger at these actions. She has an unconscious drive to always punish herself for some unknown guilt. She can be scared of heights and desires to surpass this fear by walking near cliffs and precipices. Just as her father’s treatment, she is polarized and therefore unpredictable. While on one occasion she may appear calm and collected, she might out of the blue burst into an uncontrollable and fervent fit.
When she was younger she was scared of the night and the darkness; now she finds it beautiful and mystical, but still on some unconscious level bears that fear on some extent. She can become very insecure and think of herself as a complete failure, often hardly satisfied with herself and absolutely anything she engages herself to. Hence the polarizing: while during one moment she may arrogantly think of herself as superior from nature, the next one she is heartbroken by thoughts of her inferiority. She can be easily depressive and may be rather unstable. She is fond of injuries, loves the prospect of anguish and despair, people with psychopathological problems, philosophical questions with no answers. She often walked with her parents as a child to the Parc Monceau and liked to collect shells and pebbles from the beach, being a lover of nature and scenery. She likes to take pictures of anything she finds interesting, and now has a case of albums saved throughout the years. She once had everything, now she has absolutely nothing. At times days go by without food or warmth, coal or grain, or sunlight. She likes to close the drapes of the windows, pull the curtains and isolate herself from the rest of the world. Though in the cabaret underground people surround her, she feels alone.
Writing Sample:
Victoire was heading to the small and loathsomely cold garret she lodged in Monmartre, in the Rue de la Vieuville, not far from the Place de Abbesses, in which she often liked to resort to whenever she wanted to clear her mind away from the stress of her situation – which was rather often, truth be told. There was a strict 11 p.m curfew for Parisians, which had highly inconvenienced her, though she had of course to abide by the rules, or be otherwise arrested for her illegal action should she resolve to go against the regime (which would be foolish of her and anyone else, for that matter). Hitler had upon occupation immediately shut down cabarets and clubs, thus sending jazz underground, with regularly altering locations and passwords. Life was difficult for Parisians at this point in time, and Victoire was grasping from straws to keep her sanity together and survive through the period. And, oh how the Germans came and they forgot everything. Paris, the City of Light, the city of painters and all kinds of artists, Maurice Chevalier’s Paris, lovers kissing in the Seine River, the accordion making people dance in the ball musettes, the slow dances with the men smoking cigarettes and wearing berets, the Place de La Concorde, her very own Champs-Élysées, it was all gone. Paris belonged no more to the Parisians.
“Mademoiselle, dépêchez-vous s’il vous plaît! Le couvre-feu commence dans juste dix minutes!” a man’s voice was heard in the distance, and when Victoire turned around curiously, she saw the youthful face of a French official in his military uniform looking at her through kind and polite eyes, an expression of sweet tolerance in his courteous manners and refined facial features. Victoire blew the fume of her cigarette into the air, surveying him quietly and not speaking for several seconds, as though she was analyzing him from head to toe. “Je ne veux pas vous voir dans n’importe quel problème,” the young man continued, and daringly – though slowly – began to approach her.
(Translation: Miss, hurry up, please! Curfew begins in just ten minutes / I don’t wish to see you in any trouble)
Victoire smiled. “Vous croyez que je serai dans le pétrin si j’arrive à ma maison exactement une seconde après le couvre-feu ? Peut-être ils m’arrêteront ?” she provoked him, and then took another drag from her cigarette in a slow and smooth move, brushing her hands through her shoulders as the coldness seemed to be getting to her.
(Translation: You think I will be in trouble if I arrive at my house exactly one second after curfew? Perhaps they will arrest me?)
“Mademoiselle, je vous mendie,” the French official pleaded with her, feeling encouraged by her not pushing him immediately away into coming even closer to her; he was embarrassed, was probably several years younger than her, and from the looks of it knew absolutely nothing about politics and military demands or strategy. He was simply doing what he was being requested, and what he probably considered sane for his safety. “On ne devrait pas le traiter légèrement! Seulement hier ils ont arête Lefevre pour sortir les ordures la nuit et Desmarais pour ne pas fermer ses fenêtres. Les ordres sont des ordres. Ils doivent être obéis.”
(Translation: Miss, I’m begging you. This should not be treated lightly. Only yesterday they arrested Lefevre for taking out the garbage at night, and Desmarais for not shutting her windows. Orders are orders. They must be obeyed)
At this point Victoire looked at him with great interest, hardly in terms of his features or character rather than what his words revealed about his stance on the world. “Aimez-vous votre pays, Monsieur? Lutteriez-vous pour cela?” she asked curiously, now walking closer towards his direction herself, putting one hand inside the pocket of her brown, buttoned-up coat; she knit her eyebrows and awaited for his response almost with a hungry glare that came from the fact she would not take it well should he deny her words. She was hungry to find out the truth in his words, and thus her irises slightly widened in anticipation.
(Translation: Do you love your country, Mister? Would you fight for it?)
The young man was baffled. “Pourquoi – oui, évidemment je lutterais pour cela! Je lutte pour cela!” he defended himself passionately, and then a fiery smile rose up his lips, as young people were often prone to do whenever supporting their own beliefs and ideologies – if they had any. He seemed rather confused that he was to be asked this strange question from the young woman, but naturally would never refuse her an answer, especially when an answer was perfectly in order. He, perhaps, desired to impress her with his patriotism, but Victoire was otherwise disgusted by his posture and hypocritical proclamations - as she considered them. Immediately, the change in her facial features was made visible within a second.
(Translation: Why – yes, of course I would fight for it. I am fighting for it!)
“Par suivant environ les allemands? Leurs chiens le font!” she retorted back at him calmly, and then snorted unpleasantly.
(Translation: By following around the Germans? Their dogs do that!)
For several moments the man did not speak, but looked utterly shocked at her reaction. He stared at her almost in idiotic fashion, in utter disbelief, and until he decided to show her exactly how displeased and irritated he was by her (unjust, to him) behaviour, he frowned like a child. “Vous serez en retard – je suggère que vous repartez,” the French official told her through his gritted teeth, the smile vanished on the spot, his eyes cold and unresponsive. She considered his reaction as confirmation to her allegations, which had perhaps meant to provoke the truth out of him – but then again, he could always have denied it, could he not? But he chose to be duplicitous about it and play the patriotic man who sacrifices himself for the country. She resented that.
(Translation: You will be late - I suggest you move on)
“Je suggère que vous prenez un bain. Vous sentez comme un allemand,” she calmly responded to his rude manners, and without looking at him, she dropped the cigarette on the wet ground and extinguished it with the heel, as she then walked past him and into the darkness, leaving behind her the baffled French official – feeling not simply livid at her but also as though his pride had just been crushed. He clenched his fists, growled inside his throat, and then decisively marched towards the opposite direction, as though lingering any moment longer on that same spot would encourage him to report her.
(Translation: I suggest you take a bath. You smell like a German)
She had not managed to walk many feet away from the street she had come across the official (in her mind now visibly and palpably characterized as a traitor), when a sudden ruckus occurred to make her head turn immediately sideways, eyes wide open and her mouth slightly hanging in fear, stepping backwards as the thunderous noise of a German vehicle driven not far from her overfilled her: a bomb had been thrown into a cabaret – newly opened, Victoire had heard about it many a time – and made the building explode in hundreds little pieces, people shrieking in terror, the window shutters of the buildings surrounding the area reluctantly opened by the inhabitants who were burning with curiosity to know what had happened (the Germans ordering them to close them immediately or there would be consequences), women screaming in protest, cries, pain and anguish. Victoire was immobilize to the spot, as the scene in front of her eyes was one to catch anyone by terror. Several armoured French soldiers burst from the streets in defence of their city, shouting streams of invective at the Germans, but the invaders would not take this matter lightly. More shooting, fighting, and bodies were falling on the ground. Victoire’s heart was beating violently against her ribcage, as she stumbled backwards and supported herself against a tree’s trunk in the concrete pavement.
“Faites attention!” she heard a voice cry from the near distance, and soon enough the French official was running towards her. Once he arrived, she noticed his cheeks were flushed. “Sont vous d’accord?” he asked her breathlessly, and with concern perceivable in his eyes. She tried to breathe calmly, and though she should have been used to these attacks, each one was like the very first time.
(Translation: Look out! / Are you alright?)
Once she realized what was going on around her, once she actually understood it down to the marrow of her bone, she turned to look back at him, and an expression of disgust adorned her face, pushing his hand away from where he had touched her on the shoulder. He had even pulled out his rifle to protect her! She thought it so ridiculous. “Ne moi touchez pas! Vous n’avez aucun droit de me toucher! Ne moi suivez pas! Absentez-vous juste, je ne veux pas être protégé par les chiens allemands!” she shouted at him furiously, turned away and quickly walked away from him, head bowed against the wind, but always unable to let the screaming agony escape.
(Translation: Don’t touch me! You have no right to touch me! Don’t follow me! Just stay away, I don’t want to be protected by German dogs!)