"Slump, and the world slumps with you. Push, and you push alone."
-Laurence J. Peter
She remembers that night with something like acceptance, she knows that nothing can be taken back once it is done. She remembers how he released her brother and sister, throwing them to the ground and shouting that if they moved before dawn, he'd have them shot. How he brought her back to his car where his associates were sleeping, kicked them out, and drove her to a ramshackle Victorian house in the middle of a charred field.
"Winning isn't everything," he had said, as they walked through the door. "and defeat is much more likely to happen."
She had cried for the remainder of that night, locked in a bedroom with nothing else to do. She cried for her siblings, for herself, for the fact that no one had ever been able to help the three of them. Finally, after several damp hours, she ran out of tears and fell asleep on the hardwood floor.
When she woke up the next morning, he had left. There was a note on the bathroom door saying that he had gone to pick up some groceries, that if she left he'd kill her, and to expect him around five o'clock.
She began counting minutes.
The next night, his friends arrived with "housewarming gifts". He had invited her to join them, but she was not about to venture into a room with a drunken Olaf. Accepting alcohol when underage didn't sound tempting, either. She could hear them from her room, laughing and cursing, shouting about nothing at all.
She stares at the ceiling, remembering how frightened she had been -- how frightened she is. It's the morning of her eighteenth birthday, and her wedding dress is hanging forlornly in the closet, next to a single wire hanger. She knows this day has been coming since she surrendered, but it's much more mind-numbing as it's actually happening than when she thought about it all those days and months and years ago.
There's a letter from Klaus on the night table -- their only means of communication, each note hand-delivered and censured by one of Olaf's comrades. This one came two nights ago, just as the angst truly began to seep into her thoughts.
Dear Violet,
I'm openly horrified at what you're about to do, although I try to put a brave
I can't help but feel guilty when I consider how much we sacrificed to keep
The job is going quite well. The --------- ------ ----- is a nice place,
Sunny sends her love, and our prayers are with you.
Klaus
face on for Sunny (she only grows more intellegent, which can get quite
alarming sometimes). I remember the night you saved the both of us,
giving up everything just so that we would be safe... Mother would be very
proud -- Father, too.
running, because our lives weren't really at stake. You realized this before
I did, however, and I commend you for your sharp observation.
If only we had done something differently...
and my boss -- although secretive and enigmatic -- treats me very kindly.
Downstairs, he's sitting in a recliner with a bottle of wine clasped between his bony fingers, his thoughts lingering on what a special day it is. The television news stations will show up at the church, no doubt. This is, after all, eighteen-year-old Violet Baudelaire -- heiress to the Baudelaire fortune. And she's marrying... a thespian. A thespian who happens to have no money of his own.
A fifty-four year old, poor, dirty thespian with an alcohol addiction, standing calmly next to the prettiest young girl in the world. This is certainly going to look peculiar.
He's never been one to care about other people's opinions, but he vaguely wonders if it'll bother her. Through his dulled senses, he wonders how she'll feel about the ceremony. Probably repulsed, he reasons, as she has no reason to find him appealing. He has the face of a god, but children rarely realize the blessings that are standing right in front of them.
"You know there are kisses in wedding ceremonies, don't you, Violet?"
"Well... yes."
"I've had one of my friends call The Daily Punctilio, they're sure to have a reporter there, so everything has to look convincing... if you know what I mean."
That conversation took place the night before, in one of the unoccupied rooms of the house. He knows she isn't looking forward to acting as though she's desperately in love, or the three weeks of their marriage that is to come before their divorce. He knows, because of the look on her face when he mentioned the kisses.
Yes, the young people are terribly ungrateful.
His tuxedo is sitting in his room, powder-blue with a white bow-tie -- something he picked out himself. He used to tell himself he'd never get married. He used to say that no matter what happened, he'd never find a woman good enough for him. Esme's alright, in the way that they have large amount of things in common, and she's attractive. Beatrice was alright, in the way that meant they were both so intelligent and had potential. But Violet... Violet exceedes everything.
They meet at the church before anyone else can arrive; he looking the picture of pride and greed -- she, pale and tragic. They're the only two in the chapel, having arrived even before the minister. She's standing near the podeum, staring blankly at her distorted reflection. He's somewhat behind her, smiling, resisting the temptation to put a hand on her shoulder.
He knows he can't comfort her.
"I can't tell you how happy you've made me," he says, the smile still painted across his face. "In just a few short hours I'll be in control of the Baudelaire fortune... Goddamn, this is wonderful."
"Please don't swear," she says. That's what her replies lean towards -- Please don't swear. Please don't shout. Please don't look at me that way...
The minister arrives, then the guests, then the reporters and TV cameras. The ceremony rolls along with precision, no detail neglected. She's a very good actress -- casually adopting a giddiness that can only be associated with one thing: Love.
That's what this whole thing's been about, really. Love of money, love of power, love of fire. When they say "Love knows no bounds", they really mean it.
Tears are threatening to overload their ducts as the wedding continues, but she puts on a brave face and lets her insides knot up. The rings. The vows. The kiss.
You may now kiss the bride...
He kisses the bride, and she tries not to vomit.
They do countless interviews after the thing is over and done with, both stammering ecstatically and using every ounce of their beings to pretend. She can't wait for the twenty-first day of their marriage, when she will "catch him with another woman and run out the door". She's supposed to say that she doesn't care a whit about her money -- that he can have it, as long as she gets a divorce immediately.
She'll get the divorce immediately, then set off to find her brother and sister. He's even letting her take the car, and one-hundred dollars for gas.
Her outside life will be rebuilt quite easily, brick upon brick upon brick. But her mind -- the traumatized thoughts of Violet Baudelaire -- will never be the same. She'll get a psychiatrist, she decides upon entering the reception area. Yes, a psychiatrist.
He smiles as the camera snaps photographs, holding Violet's slender hand in his own. His thoughts, however, are not on corruption or perversion.
They are, quite simply, on money.