Opening Authoressial Note: HI KIDDIES, I'm BACK. And I thought it was high time I brought in some villains, so I did!
Also, I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written for a fanfiction. It would have been shorter, but "shorter" just felt too short, so you get a long one.
Disclaimer: Les Miz isn't mine. (Brief pause for tragic music) So sad, really. But the mean lady with the fan, Vivaldi, and all the creepy cats ARE. (Brief pause for happy music) Now ON WITH THE STORY!
.-.3rd-Person POV.-.
"I want that one."
"That one? But he's -"
"That house is my dominion and I will have who I like from it. Now, did you have something to say?"
"No, madame."
"Good boy." She tousled his hair, her hand encased in a spotless white glove, and he submitted to the treatment with reluctance. "Now, you know what to do."
"Yes." He paused, then blurted out what was on his mind without thought for the consequences. "But I really don't –"
He broke off as her closed fan struck his cheek, his only acknowledgement of the pain being that he closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from crying out. "You would not attempt to go against me, would you? Not now. It's far too late for that. For you."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. For his silence, he earned another pat on the head.
"Excellent. Go now."
She watched him go as he slunk out the door. As he closed it behind himself, she snapped her fan open and began to wave it up and down in front of her face.
"…It's so stuffy in here. But soon… soon."
The fan waved again before slowly coming to a halt as she stared resentfully at the door.
"Not soon enough."
~x^^x~
.-.Javert's POV.-.
About a week after the armoire incident, Valjean bought a piano. It wasn't anything as extravagant as a grand piano, though I suspected that he could have easily afforded one; this was just a simple musical instrument that he had purchased with the intent of teaching Cosette how to play.
I ignored it at first, as much as one could with the plinking of a beginner's attempts at Chopin audible throughout the entire first floor. But my breaking point came when Valjean was out one day and the plinking was more hesitant and out-of-tune than usual.
"Cosette! Move."
"M. Javert?" she said, startled. "Er – I'm sorry, was my playing –"
"Your playing was atrocious." I don't believe in flattery. "Valjean has failed as any kind of a music teacher. In fact, I suspect that he is learning along with you." Nineteen years in the galleys hardly gives someone time for piano lessons, and he was terribly busy after that. "Now, there is enough room for two people on this bench. Move to that end."
She did, and I occupied the space beside her.
"The first thing you have to learn is that beginners are not supposed to play Chopin. It raises your chances of being brutally murdered by anyone with a taste for music. The next thing you must learn is that there is a note called Middle C, and it is around this note that all piano playing revolves."
It was a good two hours later, just after I had finished performing the same Chopin song that Cosette had been struggling through earlier (as a demonstration), that Valjean finally made his presence known. I had not noticed him at all since he had been on my blind side, and the piano had drowned out any noise he might have made while entering the house.
"Stop applauding," I snapped, standing and turning to face him. "When did you get home?"
"About an hour ago," he said happily. "I've been standing here since then. Neither of you noticed me; you were quite immersed in your lesson."
Meanwhile, Cosette had leapt up and flown to his side to embrace him. "Papa! It was a marvelous lesson, M. Javert taught me so much! I can play a song, but not very well yet, and I don't want to perform it for you until it's absolutely perfect – oh, you look tired, I'll go make some tea!"
As she left the room, Valjean raised an eyebrow at me. "Piano?"
I glanced at him as I closed the music book and pushed the bench underneath the piano. "I also play the violin. What of it?"
"I don't quite know," he said, seeming both amused and confused at the same time. "I mean… you've always been such a fierce workaholic. Where did you find the time to learn how to play two instruments? Much less practice them?"
I tilted my head to one side. "What makes you think it wasn't part of the job?"
He frowned. "I don't… quite follow…"
"Really, Valjean." As I passed him on my way to the kitchen (tea sounded excellent at the moment), I placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. "The barricades weren't the only time I ever went undercover."
~x^^x~
Time passed, and Cosette's piano lessons became a regular part of my days. She had a natural talent for music, and soon it was pleasantly filling the house. However, one Monday I deferred her lessons until the next day, leaving the house early to go explore the city.
I had done this before, but only for a couple of hours at a time. Today I planned to be out until late, mapping the city and getting to know my surroundings. In hindsight, it would have been a good idea to leave a note for Valjean and Cosette. But since I had never done such a thing in the past, I didn't now.
People shied away from me because of my eyepatch, which as I had suspected gave me a disreputable appearance. However, I was used to people avoiding me – I had never been particularly popular as an inspector – and so it hardly bothered me.
What did bother me, however, was looking up from working on my map much later that day to find myself surrounded by cats.
I shot up out of my chair, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I had not had many "creepy" experiences in my life, but this was definitely one of them. As a general rule, 15 or more cats do not simply appear out of nowhere and then proceed to sit and stare at you without moving. And you may laugh at me – the great former inspector Javert, who has faced down many criminals in his day, many more dangerous by far than a pack of motionless cats – but wait until something similar happens to you and then you'll know.
It. Is. DISTURBING.
All of a sudden, they yowled and scattered, leaping over walls, chairs, and other obstructions until they had all vanished from my sight. I stared after them for a minute until I felt I could fully relax; then I sat back down and resumed work on my map.
"Well, that was disturbing! You must like cats if they follow you around like that everywhere!"
The unexpected exclamation had sent my pencil skittering over the paper; I glared at the scrawl across my map before turning my attention to the unknown speaker.
"Do I know – YOU!"
The man perched on the wall above me was tall and lean, and not particularly normal in appearance. His long red hair was streaked liberally with white despite his fairly young appearance (early or mid-30's) and was left to fall around his face and shoulders, unrestrained by a ribbon or tie of any sort. His clothing was rather British in style – he wore long black pants, a white dress shirt underneath a dark red checkered waistcoat, and highly polished black boots. A black fedora was on his head, perched at a haphazard angle that obscured part of his face.
If anything, it was his out-of-place fashion sense that caused me to recognize him.
"Ah! Have we met?"
"No, but I wish we had," I said, glaring up at him. "You may have heard of me, being in the profession that you are. My name is Inspector Javert. I work with the French police." Of course, I didn't any more, but there was no way this man was going to know that.
He leaned over far enough that he ought by all rights to have fallen off the wall, but I of all people knew that this man wasn't normal. I had tracked him and followed his actions over the years, and no normal man could have gotten away with what he got away with.
"Inspector… Javert? No. Not ringing any bells, sorry." He tilted his head to one side. "You seem to know me, though."
"Indeed I do. I know of you, at any rate. I spent four years tracking you through France." My eyes narrowed as I wished that I was armed.
"I suppose you're about to introduce me to myself, then."
"You are known only as Vivaldi. No one knows if that's your first or last name. You're one of the greatest and most bloodthirsty criminals the century has seen."
"Ah, yes, that description of me does sound familiar." His teeth flashed in a blinding-white grin. "I'm one of the greatest because no one has ever been able to find any evidence to pin me to the crimes I committed, correct? Much less find me."
Before I could respond, he glanced over his shoulder and sighed. "Terribly sorry, but I can't stay to chat. Places to go, people to kill. I'll find you later and we can continue this lovely conversation! Don't leave town." And with a wink at me, he was gone.
I almost followed him, but stopped myself, realizing that it was pointless without manpower and a plan. Besides, it was getting late, and I had the feeling that it would be in my best interests to get home sooner rather than later.
As it turned out, I was right.
~x^^x~
On my way home, it began to rain. By the time I reached 1463 Rue de Luce, it was pouring. A cat dashed past me in search of shelter as I crossed the street, which was vacant of all traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. I tried not to shiver as I walked through the gate – the rain was freezing – and up to the door, which was yanked open from the inside with alarming force before I even touched it.
"Do you have an excuse?"
I thought briefly. "No."
"Good, because if you did, I wasn't going to listen anyway." Suddenly, I was being jerked into the house by the front of my soaking wet coat. "Take that off and go change. Cosette, dear, would you make some tea?" The man could switch from irate to gentle and loving with alarming rapidity. "Go, Javert. I expect you to be in the kitchen within five minutes. We're going to have words."
There were four bedrooms in the house – one was a guest room – and I had claimed the only one on the first floor. I felt that I would be more easily able to respond to "household threats" that way: like criminals breaking down the front door or climbing in through a window, for example. Valjean had not liked the idea, feeling that it isolated me from the rest of the family, and said as much. In response, I had ignored him, and the entire fiasco ended with me getting my way.
I was dressed in dry clothing in under three minutes; the other two were spent in vigorously drying my hair with a towel and pulling it back into its customary severe style. I then made my way to the kitchen, where Valjean was waiting by himself, two cups of steaming hot tea on the table.
"What were you thinking?" he demanded as I sat down at the opposite end of the table. "You leave without saying a word, without even writing us a note, and then you come home late, not to mention soaked to the skin! You could catch a cold!"
I sat with my hands locked around my teacup, my back ramrod-straight, my uncovered eye staring down at the tabletop. Part of me resented being lectured by an ex-convict, but a larger part of me realized that I had erred. I was part of this household now, and I had to abide by its rules. So I sat and accepted his reprimands in silence.
Finally he fell silent, staring at me. "Javert, it's unlike you to be so passive. Have you nothing to say?"
I shook my head, still not making eye contact. "You are correct on all counts. I should have left a note to tell you where I was going, and I should have been back earlier. I am entirely the one at fault and I accept that. Am I…" I trailed off, but forced the question out through clenched teeth. "Are you going to punish me?"
I could feel Valjean staring at me. Then, he scooted his chair back, stood up, and rounded the table until he had reached my side. I tensed, expecting a slap or something of the kind, but was greatly surprised when he poked me in the cheek instead.
My gaze darted to meet his. "Valjea -"
"This isn't the army, nor is it the police force," he said. "This is a family. As such, I am thoroughly entitled to lecture you to my heart's content when you worry me to death by disappearing in the morning and remaining missing all day long. But punishment – that's not on the carte du jour."
He began to leave the room, then paused in the doorway. "Besides, you're too old to punish. What are you, in your forties?"
"Valjean," I growled, "go away."
I heard him laughing as he left and contemplated throwing my teacup at his head, but ultimately decided against it. After all, it would have been a waste of perfectly good tea.
The rain fell down and pattered against the windows. If the curtains hadn't been closed, I would have seen the tall, slender figure standing in the yard next door, staring intently at the house as if he could see through walls.
But since they were, I didn't.
A3: (1) I SWEAR THERE WAS A POINT TO THE PIANO-LESSON SCENE. There wasn't when I wrote it, but THERE IS NOW. It will be revealed later.
(2) I'm trying to make Saturday my "regular update" day for both of my current stories in progress, this and 2010 in the 1900's. So look forward to that!
(3) Was Chopin ALIVE when Les Miz is supposed to take place? NO. Do I care? NO. Chiefly because I couldn't think of another composer to take his place. Also… it's AU, so Chopin can be alive and famous 30 years earlier than he's supposed to be IF I WANT.
…Oh wait. I just did a bit more research AND IT TURNS OUT that Chopin was totally alive at the time Les Miz is supposed to take place. So. NEVAHMIND.
(4) My Jean and Javvie drink entirely too much tea. WHAT ARE THEY, BRITISH?
Okay, enough with the list. And on to the answer to the question that you've ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!
Erik: I haven't.
A3: That's 'cause you already knew the answer, stupid.
Erik: I AM NOT STUPID! I am insanely intelligent!
A3: (Cough) Yeah, you got that right. ANYWAY… Jean, Cosette, and Javert's house number, 1463, also happens to be the number of pages in the Signet Classic paperback, unabridged edition of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables! I got my copy for three dollars at a thrift store. (Smug grin)
Erik: You haven't read it.
A3: YOU SHUT UP! Man, now you've RUINED it. They'll think me less of a fan! I can't help it that the version I did read was abridged! I DIDN'T KNOW THERE WAS AN UNABRIDGED VERSION!
Erik: (Sigh) She's listened to the musical numerous times… and she has read a version of the book… so please don't think her a lesser fan…
Enjolras: (Spits out gag) You're pathetic! PATHETIC! And you call yourself a Mizzie? HOW DARE YOU – OW!
Erik: Don't. Diss. My authoress. Incidentally, do you know what this is? It's a cattle prod. I don't believe it's been invented yet in your time period, BUT IT WILL BE. Would you like to know what it does?
A3: (Snatches it and throws it away) Erik. You're supposed to watch him and make sure he doesn't do anything fishy, NOT TERRORIZE HIM.
Enjolras: How can I do anything fishy if I'm tied up like this?
A3: You're a revolutionary. You majored in fishy at college.
Enjolras: …What is she talking about?
Erik: Have you ever seen Madagascar?
Enjolras: No.
Erik: Then just smile and wave.
A3: I want coffee. But since that's totally unrelated, I will now give out the cookies I promised last chapter and get one of you guys to beg shamelessly for reviews. Hmn… Enjy. You do it.
Enjolras: NO! I did it ALL LAST STORY, plus you've got me tied up and being threatened! I REFUSE!
Erik: (Distant) I found the cattle prod!
Enjolras: Please leave a review. It may well keep me alive. Plus, reviewing means that the story gets written faster, which means that it will get finished faster, which means I can LEAVE HERE faster.
Erik: (Wanders back in) Besides all that, reviews make Triple A here ridiculously happy. She bounces around the house and squees.
A3: I DO NO SUCH THING.
Erik: (Produces a camcorder out of nowhere) I have video footage. Shall I show them?
A3: Uh, no. No, let's not do that.
Erik: That's what I thought you'd say.
Enjolras: I'M STARTING A PETITION. Free the revolutionary! REVIEW IF YOU AGREE!
A3+Erik: IGNORE HIM.