Ok, I've decided to work on my descriptions and do some short story work. Other chapters to come, if they come. The Muse is being decidedly difficult.
This is done in the style of Victor Hugo... kind of.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the plot or Paris.
"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves..."
–Julius Caesar: Act I, Scene II
There is an alley on the outskirts of Paris that is well used by travelers of all types. It goes along the Seine on the west side of the city, ending near the Place de Louis XV. At this moment, the gloomy half-light of dawn was beginning to creep upon that path as it did with all the streets of Paris. Black painted metal lamp-posts, not yet snuffed, edged the cobblestones, illuminating the way for what few travelers passed by at so early an hour.
Nearby this spot stood an oak tree, its dark roots tangling into the water like the tentacles of an octopus. The tree leaned towards the river a bit, its branches stretching over the banks as if it were trying to look at itself in the surface of the water. At the base of this oak tree-- half in the water, half splayed across the roots-- lay the body of a man.
Had one had the misfortune to be walking along that path at such an early hour and see the inanimate figure lying by the road, (after screaming or performing some other act of terror) they would have noticed that the figure was of a taller than average height with a similar build, that his complexion was swarthy, and that his clothes were soaked through with river water. Had this person been particularly observant, they would have noticed that dark circles ran under the stranger's eyes, that his hands were even now balled into fists, and that his entire body reflected an altogether uneasy state of being.
Had the person been acquainted with the figure, they would have recognized the form of a very agitated Inspector Javert.
Luckily, for both the observer and the observed, there was no such person by. The Parisian street was deserted save for an old tramp who had fallen asleep beneath one of the bushes in Champ de Elysées. The entire place reflected the calm after a bad storm.
Suddenly, the disheveled figure burst to life, breaking the moment of calm. Water gushed from his nose and mouth while coughs racked his body as it expelled the river's water from his lungs. His arms grappled about for something to support himself and found the roots of the tree. With these, he levered himself onto dry land.
Having rid himself of the Seine, he lay face down in the earth. He was both surprised and incensed to find himself still breathing. Yet, despite his best efforts to the contrary, he continued to do so. His body –without his permission—had decided to live. This infuriated him more than anything else had in his life. That that strange mechanism, fate, had denied him even the peace of death was beyond tolerance, beyond comprehension. He had deserved death. He had been ready to face it, head-on at the hands of his victim. When that had been denied him, he had been ready to perish by his own hand, yet still he was denied his demise. It was as if the world were laughing at him, not letting him carry out his duty and not letting him end it either. At the thought, a long, deep groan escaped his lips--- like that of some angry beast when caged.
Little blades of grass tickled his forehead and mouth. The firm ground felt strong and comforting in a world that had just turned upside down. The sun's bright rays warmed the right half of his body, while the other side lay in cool shade. He could smell the sweet dustiness of the earth around him. And for the first time in years, he relaxed—if only for a moment. There was nothing to do, no pressing matters.
For all intents and purposes, he was dead.
The thought jarred him out of this rare moment of peace. His head and chest lifted off the ground and his arms rose to support them.
To be dead is a terrible thought, even to a police inspector first class.
It is all the more terrible when one is in fact alive.
Now fully alert, he arranged himself so that he sat crouched with one arm across his outstretched leg and the other on the ground. His head bowed, he tried to reason out his predicament. Three options revealed themselves: to flee, to accept, or to go back to the police station and pretend he had never tried to throw himself into the Seine. To flee was cowardice, this he knew despite his recent attempt to do so from the world. To pretend was to lie, another blot. He was not quite ready to accept the situation as his current predicament might suggest.
A fourth option presented itself: to wait.
"There has to be some other way," he muttered. Yet he could think of none. With a grumble, he got to his feet, grimaced at his wet clothing, and began walking. He didn't know where to. His chest and head still ached from his encounter with the Seine and his stride lacked some of its former strength and purpose. At times, he found himself growing tired, during which he only pushed himself harder. His body had already denied him once; he wasn't going to let it do so again.
Out of habit, he found himself wandering towards the city. By the time he reached Place de Louis XV, he stopped. He had already decided not to go back to the police station. His apartment would be similarly unacceptable, especially if a search had begun regarding his absence. What then?
He did not know. He felt he did not know anything anymore; only that he was wet, in pain, and decidedly annoyed.
With a slight grunt, he turned north.